Rites of Spring, and Baseball, are Back

  pring training has begun, and the sights, sounds and scents of spring itself aren’t far behind. The hint of a 60-degree day in Wisconsin this February served only to tease those of us who can’t make it down to Florida or Arizona. We sit in front of the tube, watching early clips of the teams’ workouts. They’re in short sleeves. We’re huddled on the couch underneath a warm, soft blanket. The recent snow thaw gives us the illusion of spring here in the Midwest. We’ll get more of the white stuff before the Milwaukee Brewers head north. At least for now, we can stare at the dirt-green grass and wait for longer days of sun to dry it out.

The sights are batting practice, tanned bodies, dropped fly balls, and stout beer vendors. The sounds include "Play Ball", "Kill the Ump", and "Dad, can I have a licorice rope." The scents. Ah, the scents: Hot dogs, barbecue sauce, fresh mown outfield grass, raunchy cigars (OK, that’s not a good thing.), and sun tan lotion (That "can" be a good thing, depending on who’s wearing it.). No other sport provides such unbiased majesty to the senses like baseball. Not football, not basketball, certainly not hockey.

Ground ball after ground ball breaking in the infield, and infielders. Hundreds of swings in the batting cage. Base-running drills that render the rusty legs lifeless. In the far distance, outfielders hear the call from coaches: ‘Hit the cutoff man. Give your infielder a chance." Monotony never had it so good. Repetitious drill after repetitious drill. The mundane must become routine. For the pitcher, this means mechanics. Get your mechanics down, and the rest will come. For the hitter, it’s timing. Brush the cobwebs off that swing, and don’t let the pitcher affect your timing.

The pitcher checks the runner, gets the sign from the catcher, and looks back at the hitter. But wait. This is "early" spring training. So far, only the pitcher, catcher and the ball are real. Sort of like the grass in my yard. It’s merely last year’s grass battered by winter. The hitter settles into the box, and waits for his pitch from the pitching coach. It’s not Randy Johnson. It doesn’t have to be.

Bottom of the ninth, tie game, runners on first and second. Bob Uecker has the call. Ah, the call. The sound of Uke’s voice is it’s own rite of spring. There’s nobody like him. When I can’t go to the game, or watch it on TV, I can listen to Uecker and his partner weave verbal tapestries from the sardine-can radio booth. During football season, we castigate the announcers. During baseball season, we revel in their between-inning stories and keen grasp of the obvious and not so obvious. For now, we’ll wait for exhibition season game #1. Mr. Baseball needs spring training too.

My two favorite teams, the Brewers and Pirates, probably won’t win the pennant or the World Series (OK, forgot "probably"). Their squads won’t be filled with 20-game winners or triple crown threats. Their starting rotations might become unfamiliar by July. They’re more likely to play tug-of-war with last place in the NL Central. The big stars in their division, Sosa, McGuire, and now Griffey, don’t inhabit their rosters. Their constant flirtations with the .500 mark (and points lower) might prompt shouts of: "A tie is like kissing your mother" or the time-honored phrase of the old Brooklyn Dodgers: "Wait til next year."