He Makes the Catch

The arrival of spring brings with it the return of blessed baseball, for my money still the best game to play and watch.  One of baseball’s many pleasures is its spatial symmetry, which is best appreciated from a seat in the upper deck where a full view of the infield diamond’s subtle dimensions are visible. Did you know (I did not) that the arc from first to third base is exactly equal to the distance from home plate to second?  The measurement is 127 ft., 3-3/8 inches, let the record show.

I also like baseball’s expanse beyond the diamond, a reminder of the game’s pastoral roots.  Outfields can be, and are, as big or as oddly laid out as the real estate “footprint” allows. It explains why parks are considered either hitter or pitcher friendly based upon how close in or far out the walls are positioned vis-a-vis the batter’s box.  The outfield is where foot speed is most valued, because of the absolute need to cover so much ground. Outfielders must be lightning fast to run down fly balls and line drives, and also sufficiently skilled to judge where to run to reach the right spot for the catch.

I played baseball as a kid, on a team named the “Red Rockets.”  No unis, but we all had dark blue (wool — this was 1956) baseball caps, upon which our moms had ironed two, bright red felt letter ‘Rs’ over the bill.  I played some right field but mostly first base because I am left-handed, and baseball lore had it that lefties had an advantage at first base.  I was a no-field, no-bat kind of player, but good for a laugh or two in the dugout.

What I most remembered was how big everything really was!  As an 11-year-old, running the bases from first to third required enormous effort and stamina because of the sheer amount of ground to be covered.  The outfield was even more vast an expanse. I was fairly fast and could reasonably judge most fly balls, but I was in constant fear of being unable to track down a line drive hit into the gap between center and right field.  If you didn’t get to the ball, and it rolled to the fence, chances were pretty good that the batter (faced with his own challenge of speed and distance) would be headed for home by the time you retrieved the ball and threw it back in to the infield. Then, because baseball moves at its own languid pace, you’d be left standing out there, alone, sheepishly digging at the grass with your spiked shoe and afraid to look up or at anyone.

Sportsman Park

One summer weekend, our team, coaches and some of our parents boarded a bus and traveled to St. Louis, then and now a real baseball town, to see the Cardinals play in Sportsman Park (long since torn down).  We sat in a group along the left field line, which put us in close proximity to the great Stan (“theMan”) Musial, a lumbering but graceful hero who was a prolific hitter and a graceful fielder.  A batter for the opposing Cubs hit a looping fly ball into left center and Musial, taking off at the crack of the bat, chased down the fly for a long out.  He had to run a long, long way, but the ball was always within his loping, easy reach.  I can still see Musial’s uniform jersey, number 6, loose and baggy, surging and receding like an ocean wave, as he galloped away towards the ball.

Now it is many years later, and I recently found myself standing in the outfield of a baseball field where my son’s team was limbering up to start its spring practice.  I figured no one taking BP was ever going to hit it to where I was.  I was reminded, standing there, that for many decades in the early years of baseball, some fields didn’t have fences.  In fact, at New York’s old Polo Grounds, where the Giants played before moving to San Francisco, the fans were the fences!  Long flies could literally disappear into the crowd and still be in play, until Major League Baseball mercifully changed the rules.

Interrupting my thoughts, one of the kids practicing his swing hit a long fly that appeared headed in my direction in a high, looping arc.  If I were to catch it (and of course, I had no choice because baseball instinct compelled me to try) I quickly calculated that I needed to start running backward and fast.  I took off, but within a few steps, I slowed as if tethered.  My legs were suddenly mush. I could not traverse the grass from where I was to where I thought the ball was headed.  Helplessly, I watched as the ball plopped into the ground about 20 yards away. I retrieved it slowly, walking to it, while the kids and coaches waited.  I threw the ball back in the general direction of the infield, but the ball went mostly sideways and down, and one of the new spring players came out to pick up the ball, like a birding retriever.

It was clear to me at that moment that those vast spaces of the baseball field had now, for an older me, become as unavailable as a distant galaxy. What I once could do — and did, many times — was no longer in my power.  Try as I might, I am past the time when I could conquer the space between me and the white baseball bounding along the green grass.