"To everything there is a season"

                    "To Every Thing There Is A Season..."

           The Yankees and the Phillies in the World Series was about as interesting to me as a lecture on the molecular composition of asphalt shingles. And I am a baseball guy! I leaped as high as Yogi Berra when Don Larsen got the third strike call on Dale Mitchell to complete the only perfect game in series history. I can tell you the entire line-up for both teams in the 1960 Fall Classic. I hate that Lou Brock didn't slide in Detroit in '68. And what a terrible call at first base by Don Dinkinger in the Royals-Cardinals "I-70 Series" in 1985! Shoot, I remember when they played all the games in the afternoon. There was something special about those early October shadows in Yankee Stadium.

           And I think that's my rub this year. It's hard to find an October shadow when you play the World Series at night in November!

           It was the first time I have ever seen a baseball cap with ear muffs. Hot coffee was more important than Gatorade. Middle infielders had on so many layers of clothes the commissioner ordered another steroid probe. Electrically heated fur lined insulated hand warmers replaced batting gloves. The fans were dressed for a wild game hunt in the Tetons. The cameras would pan the crowd and you'd a'thought we were watching the Bears and Packers playing in Green Bay.

           As a matter of fact, game 4 in Philadelphia, was played AFTER the Eagles and New York Giants finished their NFL football game across the street! Folks, there is something wrong with the system! I know it is strictly business. The teams, leagues, owners, players, executives and left field line ball girls all seem to be in it for the money. That doesn't make it right.

           I want the World Series to be the highlight of the moment. The nation needs to be tuned in and glued to it! And that is near about impossible when you squeeze it in amongst college and professional football, the Celtics and Cavaliers early season showdown, ice hockey and the NASCAR chase for the Winston/Nextel/Sprint Cup.

           Baseball is a summer sport. It starts as the first signs of winter dissipate and hope springs eternal in all of us. It refreshes with the season. It is a mainstay. Our bell cow. The "constant" that James Earl Jones reminded us of in "Field of Dreams. There is no clock. Time can't run out. We can get caught up and carried along by baseball. It marks our passing of time. I still remember George Sexton turning an unassisted triple play in Little League. I met three of my best girl friends at ball parks. I've had some of my greatest triumphs...and some of my worst disappointments between those carefully measured out base lines. The game reflects life itself! It should not end its season on a frozen note.

           Money ain't that important I don't care who you are!

           Me and John Ingram would report to the back yard with a ball and our gloves about the same time the big league teams arrived in Florida. It would be a little chilly. But the sun was warm on those early March afternoons. And we knew that each succeeding day was going to be better! We didn't mind the black electrician tape around the ball, the two dollar Revelation gloves or the tacks in the handle of a splintered bat. We were alive! We were getting ready! We were in the game!

           By the time school "got out" in May we were in the best baseball shape of our little lives. Here's the great thing, if we had two players we had a game going. We just used imaginary runners and fielders. We knew a pop-up or a weak grounder was an out. A line drive off the shed was a double, off the roof-a triple, and if you completely cleared the whole building, it was a home run. If five or six showed up, we'd choose up and declare right field foul and go to it.

           By June we'd have a dozen or more down at the big field beside the pajama factory. I'd sweat through my underwear by the thirty-fifth inning. I've seen dirt rings under Ricky Hale's neck so thick you could plant corn in it. I marveled at how Jackie Burns could go in the hole to his right and back-hand a ball and come up throwing to first all in one motion. I would go home and practice that play by bouncing a tennis ball off the side of our house. It was a learning process.

           We worked out any, and all, problems by ourselves. There were no umpires or grown-ups. If the play was close at second naturally everyone "saw it" in favor of his team. The ensuing discussion would be in direct proportion to the score, the players involved and how much daylight we had left. We didn't waste time arguing. We came to play ball! One of the older guys would call it, and we'd get on with the game. It was a growing process.

           I can still recall Larry Ridinger crowding the plate, the day Bobby Brewer became "Yogi" and Paul David Campbell's long strides. Eddie Basford had this great Clete Boyer model Rawlings glove. Don Melton would swing so hard. Kenny Butler played a lot of first base. Ricky Gene Stafford would be talking about the Chicago Cubs.. It was a lifetime memory making process.

And when school started back in September we turned to football. It was fall for goodness sakes! The World Series was the last vestige of the baseball season. Even as we hung on each pitch we knew it marked the end for this year. It was the culmination, the pinnacle of our season. It was to be watched and savored and honored because we would not see its likes again until spring.

You can't savor baseball in November! I don't care how hard you try. And here's the really sad part... It has become so ruefully apparent that no one even remotely connected with major league baseball today ever spent any time down at that old field beside the pajama factory. 

            Respectfully,

                 Kes