Reese Kaplan -- How We Came to Feel Baseball in Our Blood

To a great many people baseball is "just a game," not a particularly engrossing way to spend time during the contest itself nor a way to occupy the many hours between when one ends and the next one begins.  Those types of people think about other things, engage in other activities and find other ways to fulfill the time in their lives that don't involve a wooden stick, a leather glove and a horsehide covered ball.  

I remember sitting at my father's side both at home in front of the TV and at the stadium, trying both to understand the games and serving as his personal snack waiter whose responsibility between innings was to run back and forth to the kitchen to get him food, beverages and napkins.  He was not a drinker, so it was nothing more toxic than returnable Hoffman bottles of diet soda.  

It wasn't long before I started to understand some of the nuances of what made the game special.  I will forever remember the first time I saw a runner on third, tie score late in the game, and the batter instead of swinging away to drive home the run squared around a the last minute and executed what my father told me was a suicide squeeze bunt while the runner raced at full speed towards the plate.  The risk was amazing.  

If the batter was unable to bunt the ball the runner was a dead duck.  If the pitch was way outside, too high or too low, then the same result would happen.  However, the pitch was in the overall range of the strike zone, the batter actually pushed it towards third base where there was no defender nearby and the game was tied.  I really think it was that single play that cemented baseball into my soul and made me realize that there was much more to the game than mere balls, strikes and fielding challenges when a ball is hit.  

As my progression as a Mets fan grew, I saw things from players in both dugouts that forever stuck with me.  I remember vividly the types of disruptions guys like Ralph Garr and Lou Brock caused whenever they got on base.  It was many years later before the Mets saw Mookie Wilson, Roger Cedeno, Rickey Henderson and others who returned the favor to the opposition.  

Then there were the defensive shifts that were never really taught to me as a Little Leaguer.  Who knew about anything more exotic than covering one side of the field when a left handed or right handed hitter was at the plate (or when an unusually hard thrower was on the mound and you just knew that the batters would never get around in time to pull the ball?  

In the major league revelations occurred demonstrating things like shifting the infield just like you shifted the outfield. Then there were folks like Keith Hernandez that showed how important it was to charge at the plate to curtail the potential for success on a bunt.  

There were catchers who would call for pitch outs to try to nail pesky base stealers.  Then there were the options on double plays that involved tagging runners and forcing the other half of the play to require a tag as well.  It was these subtleties that became deeply ingrained in my psyche though they appeared to be totally irrelevant to the casual watcher.  

During the 1990s the big drive towards the long ball took root not because of studies about the launch angle, but because many in the game learned that certain pharmaceuticals could help them recover more quickly or enhance what they were able to do naturally.  You don't have to see a before and after photo of Barry Bonds to understand one's face doesn't swell up from exercise alone.  

I also vividly remember the unusual pitchers.  Yes, everyone could appreciate the mastery of a Bob Gibson, a Tom Seaver, a Steve Carlton or a Juan Marichal.  However, it was the weird deliveries of sidearmers like the now late Jeff Innis or the knuckleball floating from a Charlie Hough or the way Fernando Valenzuela would at the last minute before delivering look skyward.  

To make others understand the tight grip baseball has on an individual is mostly a losing battle.  Just as there are people who obsess over hoops or football or auto racing, the fans for whom Abner Doubleday's game is entrenched in their soul often have a hard time articulating just why.  

The folks who sit around the negotiating table on both sides having ego battles about who is the winner and who is the loser in contractual talks neglect the true fans of the game.  They are merely bean counters and are far more concerned about generating and preserving revenue than they are with the sounds and look of the game we love.  That's truly sad.