In a year when American culture seems to be dissolving before our very eyes in the shadow of a political discourse that often seems as turbid as it is abhorrent, there’s always baseball.
I grew up the daughter of a man who loved baseball; over the years my Mom learned to enjoy it just as much. My dad played it, listened to it, watched it, collected cards of players he admired. I can’t even pinpoint my first baseball experience, such is the way the entirety of the game enveloped around and melded into my childhood memories.
I grew up in Minnesota and thus cheered ardently for the Twins. I don’t hear about them much anymore; they haven’t had too many consecutive stellar seasons as of late, but they won the World Series twice when I was a kid–1987 and 1991 — and we watched home games at the Metrodome (a huge dome with a cover that was not retractable because, hello, Minnesota). Before my brother was born, the three of us went to games — my Dad reminded me we could buy tickets in left field for $5 and we’d bring in our own bags of peanuts (in the shells of course!) and peanut M & M’s.
Is there anything more simple or delightful as a kid? To sit with your parents, sucking the salt off a peanut and screaming for Kirrbbbyyyyyyyyyyyy Puckett! (This is actually how Bob Casey announced him). I can still hear John Gordon say, after Puckett had the winning home run of Game 6 of the 1991 World Series: “Touch ‘em all Kirby Puckett, Touch ‘em all Kirby Puckett!”
During the height of the Twins golden years, I can remember dancing with my dad in our basement to the record — yes, an actual record — of one of the many Twins’ theme songs. We had two cats named “Herbie” and “Kirby,” after Kent Hrbek and Kirby Puckett. Every spring and summer I relished the taste of a hot dog and hearing the roar of the crowd and sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for the 100th time.
I was young when “Field of Dreams” came out and I swallowed that movie whole. It captured my imagination and awakened a love for the game I have let wax and wane over the years, but never completely lost. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized every girl did not have a crush on Shoeless Joe Jackson. I still remember his batting average (.356–third highest in history) and that he was born in Greenville, South Carolina, where he lived.
Do I believe he deserves a place in the Hall of Fame? Is baseball the greatest game ever?
Minnesota’s political history is as turbulent as our country’s — particularly this last year, which has boasted its share of scandal, confusion, and yet, some successes. But through the political ups and downs, baseball remains, in my eyes, alluring and joyful. Political cycles have enough grime and obloquy to disillusion even the purest of hearts — must it taint even baseball? No.
I dreamt, before I had kids, that I would take them to games and show them everything I had tasted and seen with my own parents–the love of the game, the pride of Americana, the simple family time. The freedom of joy in a classic sport that, at least in the eyes of a child, transcends all conflict, all political scrutiny, all nastiness. Is there anything that surpasses teaching your son how to hold a mitt — to feel the new leather stretch and squeak in your fingers — to be the very first person to tell him there are four bases in a diamond shape? Not to mention the analogies of life built on baseball colloquialisms are too many to count: “There’s no crying in baseball!” “If you build it, he will come.” “Hey Dad…wanna have a catch?” Whatever coup d’etat a politician tried, whatever ploy, however the elections turned out, there is always God, family, and baseball.
But like many parents, days got busy with work, kids, and life. Every year I have made excuses: the kids are too young, the local team — the Nationals — play too far away. Finally, last summer, I took my kids to at least one Minor League game — they were as interested in hot dogs and ice cream as they were the score — and I attended a few Major League games with friends. It was as wonderful as I had remembered.
For hours, no one discusses politics: It’s at once calming and exhilarating. Every spring it never fails, when I smell fresh grass and see a glimpse of blue sky as the heaviness of winter begins to fade, I get that wave of nostalgia–the desire for a game that never disappoints. Even when political discourse is shallow, contentious, or absurd, baseball remains pure joy.
Nicole Russell is a contributor to the Washington Examiner’s Beltway Confidential blog. She is a journalist in Washington, D.C., who previously worked in Republican politics in Minnesota. She was the 2010 recipient of the American Spectator’s Young Journalist Award.
