TPB SPRING WRITING TOURNAMENT
The House That Baseball Built — A Memoir
The cleanest dirt around
Dear Kids,
I know you think baseball is boring. It’s a slow game, I’ll give you that. Watching the Raptors or the Leafs provided much more thrill in a minute.
But the thrill is gone for the season as our teams hit the links.
When I asked if you would go to see the Blue Jays this weekend, the scowls told the story. But I have a story to tell about my history with the sport that I hope will change your mind.
Baseball was very much a part of my childhood. I walked by the Balsam Pits in Thunder Bay, Ontario every day to and from school. There was always someone throwing a ball around those diamonds, eating spits, enjoying the freshly mowed grounds, and getting covered in the cleanest dirt you could bring home on jeans without your parents getting angry.
Your grandpa coached your uncle at the Pits. I was the team manager, which meant I got to sit near my dad all weekend. I eventually graduated to concessions girl counting jujubes because grandpa was tired of hearing me complain about the boys spitting at my feet.
Baseball season was fun. Always. It wasn’t the games so much as it was the number of people who showed up just to watch. You didn’t have to know anyone in the game to enjoy the sun from the hillside and the crack of the bat that announced school was out. Baseball signified outdoors, neighbors, laughter, cheering, and smiles. Parents were proud and consoling; girls and boys were flirting; everyone shared popcorn and candy cigarettes without knowing about sanitizer.
When I walk by the Balsam Pits or any ball diamond today, there are no games. The grounds are mowed but never trodden. No slides into home, no fly balls into the neighbor’s garden, no rousing cheers signifying something marvelous was happening. No candy behind the boarded concession. Now baseball diamonds are used for smoking, after-school fights, and letting dogs run around off-leash while their owner checks their phone.
It is sad. Baseball is supposed to be happy.
Local baseball has kind of died. Not a painful, sudden death. Instead, the slow and steady decline of a prolonged illness. It is not a terminal diagnosis, but there is real suffering, and it is visible.
Asking you to join me for a game at the Rogers Centre feels like reviving the dead or going into remission. I swear I can smell the freshly mown childhood, the sweet treat of summer candy and popcorn, and the heat on my face when a cute boy caught my eye from the tickets alone.
I had no idea how much I identified with baseball until the first day I stepped into that dome, long before you were born. It represented time with my dad and brother, shared excitement, full days in the sun, dirt, sweat, and hard work. We would fall exhausted after those days at the Pits, and it felt terrific.
I want to share the electric energy of the Blue Jays fans jump-starting a sport I once loved. The pain when a player misses the catch or strikes out sends a shock through the crowd that is invigorating. Standing as a community giving high-fives to strangers when the Jays make a play, is bound to fill you with butterflies of joy. The Jays-clad kids wearing gloves waiting anxiously for a souvenir; the players shaking hands with fans in the front; the jumbotron excitement and the national anthem swell the heart.
Plus, I’ll buy you a shirt if you come.
Love Mum, xoxoxo
PS: Would it kill you to put away the clothes off your floor before we leave?
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