Take me out to the ball game

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

Thursday was opening day for the Mat-Su Miners, and with the crack of a bat, the air was filled with everything baseball is to those of us who love the game.

"It's nice to hear you people wax poetic about baseball," a friend once said. "You almost make it sound like something worthwhile. But then I watch 10 minutes of a game and realize it's still the same ol' boring sport it always was." That's because you can't get at the important stuff in baseball in 10 minutes. It's because you can't understand the game by watching it. Baseball, unlike any other sport, must be experienced. It's not a spectator sport in the classic sense. The things that are good about the grand old game are too subtle for that.

One of the things that bothers non-baseball people is that the game can move slow at times, and that it doesn't produce the rapid-fire scoring of some of the other popular sports. In fact, baseball defines a "perfect game" as one in which one team doesn't even put a man on base, let alone score a run. That is so, because baseball is the only game that puts the ball in the hands of the defense. Scoring is not an expectation in such a game -- it is an accomplishment. It is just one of the many ways baseball represents what it is to be American -- at least in theory. To be American is to begin with the possibility of success, but no guarantees. It is to believe that the right combination of skill, perseverance and luck will produce the desired outcome. To be American is to believe in possibility -- in potential. And possibility and potential are at the core of what baseball is.

That moment of contact -- that crack of the bat -- defines potential more than any other single moment in sport. It is the moment when possibility becomes distilled and is sent rocketing, in the form of a small cowhide sphere, on a path that will likely end in disappointment, but might just end in elation. In the late innings, in a tight game, the sharp crack of contact brings fans and players simultaneously to their feet. If the sound is the solid one that comes only when the ball has found the sweet spot of the bat, people begin to cheer even before the ball has cleared the infield -- even though they know it may well be caught on the warning track. It doesn't matter. They are not cheering the home run; they are cheering the possibility of it.

If the ball clears the fence, the cheers become a roar. If it is snagged on the track, the cheers sink into a collective groan -- an opportunity missed, a possibility come to a bad end. No matter, the next man is already settling into the batter's box, and the crowd is back in seats, leaning forward, ready to pounce on the next chance at glory.

That is one of the reasons to wax poetic about the game that has followed us, and in so many ways defined us for so many generations. There are so many.

The National Football League has done a better job marketing itself than any other professional sports league in the world. It enjoys a bigger audience than other sports as a result. Football also translates well to television -- it's a technical game that benefits from technology. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy football as much as anyone, but in a different way.

Baseball doesn't do well on television. You can't express the breadth of the game on television. You get the battery, and you get the play as it happens, but you don't get the game. Much of the game happens between pitches. It can be gauged in the shifting infield and outfield. The battle between pitcher and batter is focused and intense. It is only too obvious. The battle between the pitcher and the speedster on first is more subtle, but it could change the outcome of the game. You have to be there, or you have to watch the game in your head, to truly enjoy it. That's why I've always preferred baseball in person or on the radio than on television. Television tries to focus and minimize a game that has to be appreciated in its expansiveness. Remember, the baseball field doesn't end at the fence. The lines go on to infinity. You can't fit that on any big screen.

I'm writing this column on Friday evening, and I'm planning to take my kids to the Miners game on Saturday. I don't know if they're excited about that, but I am. I'm excited to be at the beginning of another season, but I'm also happy that I'll get to share this game with my kids. It's another thing that makes baseball more our game than any other. Its pace and its association with the warm days of summer make it a game to be shared. We'll talk about things we did this week. We'll share the baseball communion of soda and hot-dogs … then we'll stand up and roar. At least that's the possibility I'm thinking about right now.

Frank Ameduri grew up believing the voice of Vin Scully came from an angel … now it does.