BASEBALL AND YESTERDAY
By Jeff S. Martindale
 

I was seven years old when my father took me to my first major league baseball game. A devout St. Louis Cardinal fan—like his father before him, he took me on a trek to Busch Stadium in St. Louis to see the Cardinals play.

On that hot summer morning in 1975 we loaded the family sedan for the five-hour drive to my aunt’s house in Crestwood, Missouri, southwest St. Louis. We traveled in style, with canned drinks and snacks to quench our tummies, windows rolled down, and radio blaring music of the times. I excitedly asked my father a hundred questions about baseball, his old baseball card collection, and the picturesque scenes framed for me in the car’s open windows.
He patiently answered my questions, adding personal details about the players, stating how his card collection contained such jewels as Mickey Mantle and Stan Musial, if he could ever find them amid the clutter of my grandmother’s garage.

Upon arriving at my aunt’s house, we unloaded our things and, much to my frustration, visited a while. I was anxious to see the stadium I had heard so much about. When we finally arrived downtown, we leisurely walked along a busy street lined with tall hotels, old warehouses, and open parking lots. In the distance I saw the tall parabola of the Gateway Arch. My anticipation and giddiness intensified as we strolled past the Marriott hotel and crossed Walnut Street, arriving at Busch Stadium well before game time.

At the ballpark’s gate my father handed our tickets to an attendant. He then steered me through the turnstile and inside. Although the sun shone brightly, electric lights illuminated the stadium’s interior gray concrete corridors. I firmly gripped his hand as we walked the passageways in search our section.

Once found, I slipped from my fathers grasp and ran up the ramp that led to daylight, the spacious grandstands, and the playing field below. As I waited for him to catch up, I stood motionless at the top of the ramp and gazed with amazement as I turned my head in every direction.

I found watching batting and fielding practice to be as exciting as the game itself. The stadium was immense. When I craned my neck over the vast sea of spectators, a wave of red shirts and red hats prevailed. As a small town boy, I had never seen so many people in one place.

The elderly gentleman sitting next to me kept to himself, eating his peanuts in silence. Throughout the game he tossed the shells to the ground. Although the concrete floor between his legs was his target, most of the trash landed in bunches on his shoes.

Before the game, a booming voice emanated from the huge loudspeakers atop the stadium and announced the starting lineups. Next, prompted by that resounding voice, the sea of humanity rose to their feet in unison for the singing of the "Star Spangled Banner".

My father took great pleasure in educating me on the finer points of the game. With his help I learned to diligently record the progress of the game on a cardboard scorecard, where I wrote small letters, lines, and symbols next to each player’s name when he got a hit, scored a run, or made an out. I had to write real fast when there was a lot of action on the field.

Vendors hawking everything from beer and hot dogs to cotton candy and souvenirs paraded up and down the aisles. While the players made magnificent plays on the diamond, I was impressed by the athletic agility the vendors and their customers used to complete their transactions. The vendor would softly toss a bag of peanuts to his customer standing in the middle of a row of thirty seats, perhaps thirty to forty feet from the aisle where the vendor stood. Payment was passed hand to hand by fellow fans.

I don’t remember who won the game—or even who the Cardinals played—but I didn’t care. I saw my first home run that day. The ball was hit high into the left field bleachers. When it left the bat my heart raced with anticipation as it headed toward the fence. As it began its decent I leaped to my feet and stretched my arms high into the sky, hoping that it would leave the park. Unfortunately, the other fans immediately around me also jumped to their feet with outstretched arms. As I quickly mounted my seat to better see the ball I heard the roar of the crowd. In the commotion, my neighbor’s peanut shells flew everywhere.

When the game ended, strolled down to edge of the playing field. What a thrill it was to be so close to the ground where my heroes roamed. I wanted to run around the bases and stamp on home plate to the cheers of thousands. Finally, as we exited the stadium, I grasped my father’s hand and we walked out together, content and happy.

For decades my passion for baseball, and in particular, the St. Louis Cardinals continues to burn brightly. My father died when I was 22, and I regret that he’ll never attend a game with his grandsons. Unlike the pages of my old scorecards, my enthusiasm for the game hasn’t faded. I’m reminded of a quote from the movie ‘Field of Dreams’, that poetically describes how I feel about the game my father shared with me: 

“…the one constant, through all the years has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. Baseball has marked the time! This field! This game! It's a part of our past. It reminds us of all that was once good, and it could be again.”

A stone marker and plot of green grass now mark the spot where my father rests in eternal peace. His death broke my heart, but baseball continues to mend the cracks. I look forward to the spring, when the game begins again and blossoms like the flowers on my father’s grave. Summer afternoons and evenings often flourish with box scores, the din of the crowd, and the static of the radio broadcasts that bring me closer to the action. The fall rains mark the exciting end of the season and the impending sorrow of winter without the game I love. I count on baseball—no, rely on it—to cushion the passage of time, to keep the memory of my father alive, and to give hope to my sons that I will be around to teach them what he taught me. 

Somebody once said, “The strongest thing baseball has going for it today, is yesterdays.” I miss my yesterdays, but I absolutely look forward to my tomorrows.