I’m not much of a sports fan, but I do enjoy baseball.  It’s not just the game; baseball means spring, youth, and sunshine.  When I was younger, I would go to spring training in Arizona with some girlfriends.  Of course, the main reason we were there was proximity to the players, and to meet all the guys who went down to watch the players prepare for the regular season.  But we did watch the games.   And although I enjoy a good double play, I must say there is nothing like a handsome young player in a snug pair of baseball pants.  Yes indeedy, baseball pants make a fine display of firm male posterior.  Don’t tell me you never noticed!

Back in the day, I was a San Francisco Giants fan.  That was when the Giants played at Candlestick Park.  They renamed the stadium 3Com Park, but these names that go the highest bidder just don’t hold the same charm.  The ‘stick is a true fan’s park, mostly because only a true fan could stand to be there.  It’s a cement monstrosity built on a rocky outcropping on the bay just south of San Francisco.  It’s cold and windy.  The seats are uncomfortable.  The only fare offered back then was traditional baseball food: hot dogs, Cracker Jack, peanuts, popcorn, soft drinks and Bud. 

Now the Giants play at the new SBC Park.  It’s a beauty.  There is a play area for children, and the stadium offers a stunning view of the Bay Bridge.  The comfy seats each have a drink holder.  And concessions….well, let’s just say that one dines at the new park!  Forget hot dogs.  How about garlic fries, sushi, and microbrew?  Unfortunately all this modern luxury carries a hefty tag.  Don’t even think about taking the family to the game unless you plan on pawning your soul first.  

Needless to say, I do not attend Giants games with the regularity of my youth.  And it really doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m afraid with marriage I had to change my allegiance.  My Georgia-born husband’s moods from April through September rise and fall with the performance of the Atlanta Braves.   Add to that the fact that I have three small children, and, well, I think you can probably guess how much time I have to even care about baseball, let alone follow a specific team. 

But in the past few weeks, all that has changed.  There’s a new team in town, and I am a diehard fan.  They’re the Cubs.  The Walnut Creek Youth Athletic League T-ball Cubs.  It’s the most exciting exhibition of America’s favorite pastime.  My whole family attends each and every game, and I am glued to the action on the field. 

I’ll never forget the first game… 

The player at bat looked menacingly at the pitcher, then fixed his steely eyes on the T and whacked one into center field.  It was an easy base hit.  Tagging the base with time to spare, he high fived the first base coach.  Tension was in every line of his body.  Would he run? 

No.  He turned his back to the action at home plate, scanning the fans with his eagle eyes.  Jumping up and down, he waved excitedly, and shouted “I love you, Mommy!” 

“I love you, too!”  I shouted back, beaming hugely at the parents around me. 

“How cute!” and “Oh, that’s sweet!”  they murmured in appreciation. 

Oh, what a day that was.  

The players are apt to be distracted by bugs in the grass.  The ball rolls through their legs, and they don’t always know what base to run. The Cubs play at a park where the view of the field is obstructed by a high cyclone fence.  There are a few bleachers, but no comfy seats, no drink holders.  Concessions are only offered to children, and most adults aren’t interested in the graham crackers and juice boxes, anyway.  

It’s the best damn ballgame I’ve ever seen.

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