just a game

Games are supposed to be games. There are some things that are not games — that are serious — but people still seem to play. I think of politics… I think of all the skirting of hypocrisy that is rampant in far too many… where we each seem to sigh and slowly mutter under our individual breaths, “oh, the games people play.”

There is one game the Intramuralist has always loved. There is no logical rhyme or reason for my semi-healthy obsession. It’s a long and sometimes complicated game… sometimes boring… and sometimes those who play — including my two oldest boys — get really, really, unattractively hot and sweaty… and even more hot and sweaty.

Also true in this game is that sometimes the parents get a little nutty. Let’s face it; any parent who gets thrown out when 12 year olds are competing against one another is a little nutty (… and, uh… maybe something more than that).

But truth told, the Intramuralist has always loved the game of baseball. Maybe it was the Big Red Machine in the mid 70’s; maybe it was Reggie Jackson and the surnamed Mr. October; maybe, too, it was the young, innocent heart I had that so admired Rod Carew and Roberto Clemente.

Maybe it was the forced humility witnessed on the ostentatious grand stage when Boston’s Bill Buckner allowed that ground ball to trickle between his legs in the ’86 World Series… or when Angels’ reliever Donnie Moore gave up that playoff home run, that sadly seemed to haunt him the rest of his life… or maybe it was when the Cubs floundered again in 2003, blaming a fan infamously named “Bartman,” instead of wrestling with their multiple miscues that occurred thereafter. Baseball is a funny game. But then again… it is just a game.

I remember when the game was just a game
And you could count on your home team
And know all the players names
But now it doesn’t seem like anything stays the same

But I’m so glad one thing hasn’t changed
Hot dogs and a nice cold brew on a nice hot summer day
And the thrill of my team going all the way
On that October stage
In a game that doesn’t change

In the field of dreams
Bases loaded two out home team down by three
And yeah that’s me with the chance to be your hero
I wanna be your hero in the field of dreams

I’ve love that Blessid Union of Souls song… reminding me of my home team and how I’ve always known all the players names — ever since I was some seven years old… reminding me of a game being just a game… reminding me of the joy of healthy competition… reminding me of the strategy instilled… reminding me of my youth — when my brothers and I would purchase a complete Topps card set each year — and then roll the dice enacting out our own version of taking ourselves out to the ballgame.

Tonight in Cincinnati is the 2015 Major League Baseball All-Star Game. It will be the 86th edition of our national pasttime’s summer exhibition. For the first time ever, the Intramuralist will be in attendance. We will take our boys. We will “oooh” and “ah” at the likes of Pujols, Trout, and youngster Bryce Harper. We will cheer on hometown favorites Todd Frazier and Aroldis Chapman.

We will also stand and cheer when the spotlight briefly beams on all time hits leader, Pete Rose — a man understandably banned because of betting — even though the filter of morality is rarely applied consistently.

But more than all the pomp and circumstance and publicity and fanfare, there is one thing I will remind my boys of this night — embrace it; get it; there is one thing that stands out…

Remember… this is just a game. Never allow a game to become more than it is. Never, too, allow what’s serious to become a game.

Respectfully… kind of excited, too…
AR