9001120822
DETROIT FREE PRESS
900330
Friday, March 30, 1990
METRO FINAL
1D
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1990, Detroit Free Press
WHEN I HEARD VOICE, IT WAS FLORIDA CALLING
LAKELAND, Fla. -- So there I am standing in my cornfield when this voice
comes out of nowhere.
"If you go there," it whispers, "they will play."
"I beg your pardon?" I say.
"If you go there . . . they will play."
I poke my hoe in the ground. I look at my dog. I check to see if I left
the transistor radio on. I look at my dog again.
"If you go there . . ." the voice of baseball repeats, "they will play."
I cock my head. "You gotta be kidding me."
They gotta be kidding me. First of all, the voice sounds like Vin Scully.
Secondly, I promised to have nothing to do with baseball this year. That's
right. I promised to boycott the game after watching the owners and the
players behave like 4-year-olds during contract talks, acting as if $200
million wasn't enough to buy a can of soup.
Enough, I said. Every few years we endure this ridiculous process and then,
like lambs, we come back to the ballpark. Not this time. Not me. Baseball, I
decided, is a greedy, cold- blooded business, and if I wanted to watch that,
I could go to Wall Street.
"Whoever you are, you're barking up the wrong tree," I say to the voice, as
I enter the house and wash up. "Or should I say whispering? You're whispering
up the wrong tree. Either way, you're in the wrong tree. I'm finished with
baseball."
"If you go there . . . they will play."
I'm not going anywhere.
Where are my car keys?
Sparky ramble? That never happened
Not that I didn't once love the game. Not that I didn't once love to stand
behind the batting cage, my fingers curled around the links, feeling the warm
Florida sun on my back and hearing a strapping young ballplayer say to me,
"Move your damn hand before you lose it."
Not that I didn't love that. But that was a long time ago. I have new
things to do now. I have developed a life without the National Pastime. I have
books. I have the corn. I have the dog.
"If you go there . . . Sparky will ramble."
"Hah! That's a good one," I say, driving toward the airport. "I've heard
Sparky ramble enough for two lifetimes. I've heard Whitey grumble about
baserunners and Roger pontificate on the split-finger fastball. Believe me,
I've had baseball talk up to my ears. You know what? It's just talk. Who
needs to talk baseball anymore?"
"If you go there . . . Sparky will ramble."
Unbelievable.
Why should I go there? Isn't this spring training the very residue of
greed? A shortened, non-traditional version of what was once a great
tradition? Six weeks to three weeks? Players rushing to get ready? Pitchers
way behind hitters? Or is it hitters way behind pitchers? Whatever. Why
should I go there?
Besides, I have a very full schedule these days. There is a stack of books
to be read. And there's a new show on the Arts & Entertainment channel,
Swedish opera, I believe. And if I get so desperate for sports, there is
always Red Wing hock--
Well. OK. Forget that last part.
"You're still wasting your time," I say, as I purchase a ticket at the
counter. "I told you: not interested. The whole thing is a joke. Baseball? I
would sooner spend an evening with Donald Trump. And I really wish you'd stop
interrupting me. People are starting to stare."
"If you go there . . . Trammell will double."
"Oh, now stop that," I say.
Oh, the bad times . . .
Once I might have fallen for this stuff. Once the lure of green grass and
a warm breeze and the sight of nine men scattering across the field, slapping
their gloves, ready to play . . . well, once I might have been tempted. But
who can remember that stuff anymore? My mind is too cluttered with
arbitration and Jose Canseco's driving record and Pete Rose's gambling, and
Donald Fehr looking like he needs a barber and a shower, not necessarily in
that order.
"You're not dealing with a softie," I say, as I pick up my Florida
rent-a-car. "A softie might give you another chance. But we're talking
principle here. The public trust. You can only abuse the public trust so
often before the public fights back."
"If you go there--
"Don't start," I say. "Remember George Steinbrenner? Umpires on strike?"
"If you go there--"
"Matt Nokes' arbitration? Chuck O'Connor's speeches? Ron Darling calling
$5,000-a-month strike pay "Horse track money"?
"If you go there--"
"I'm not going anywhere. I am not going anywhere. I'm telling you for the
very last time, I am . . . I am . . ."
I am standing outside the stadium.
I hear the national anthem. I hear a muffled roar of a crowd. I hear the
announcer bellow, "NOW BATTING, PLAYING SECOND BASE . . . "
I will hold my ground. I will not move. I will remember all the horrible
reasons not to fall for baseball, all the times my trust has been smashed, all
the greed, all the wealth, all the disappointments.
"If you go in . . ." says the voice, "they have hot dogs."
"Who's pitching?" I ask.