By JIMMY LOWE
GLASGOW — We went out to the ballgame. We went out to the crowd. We didn’t buy peanuts or Cracker Jacks. But that was okay. We bought soft drinks and popcorn, instead.
Even though the Hot Rods lost their season’s final game to the Legends, all four generations of our family who were there, had a good time.
It was a perfect afternoon last Monday. Perfect for inhaling comfortable air, cooled and cleaned by the morning rain. Perfect for sitting in the stands at the Bowling Green Ballpark. Perfect for swapping baseball strategies and all manner of comments among children, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. Perfect for being entertained by the innings of minor league playing and the fun diversions between those innings.
It was perfect, too, for musing on the impact that sports thrusts into our culture.
There are those among my friends who seem so devoted in following their favorite teams, that I suspect they even dream of ballgames. Thier preoccupation with sports is quickly evident by even their casual conversation. Frequently, as they discuss a game they’ve witnessed, their body language exclaims passion.
I almost envy their passion. When it comes to sports, this is something I lack.
Monday’s excursion to the ballpark was a rare one for me. I’ve only rarely attended games. Had I been more involved in the past, likely I would have found sports more meaningful and rewarding through my years. Truth is, I’ve avoided regular involvement simply due to indifference.
Oh, I have sampled professional sports from rodeo to hockey. I’ve watched Andre Agassi play tennis in Los Angeles and I’ve watched the football battle at a Sugar Bowl Game in New Orleans. I’ve talked with Muhammad Ali in New York and I’ve listened to Johnny Bench talk with teammates in the Cincinnati Reds dugout. I’ve followed along at a Nashville golf course while Lee Trevino played, and laughed at the antics of the Harlem Globetrotters as they bounced basketballs in various towns.
I never collected baseball cards, but I did keep my correspondence with Joe DiMaggio who emphasized in a personal letter to me what a great sports fan Ernest Hemingway was.
Yet, my interest in any sport has been rather sporadic. I’ve never followed any athlete or team with continued enthusiasm.
As a child, I was neither encouraged or discouraged from participating in any sports activities. To comply with my desire at the time, my parents drove me to the ball field one summer where I took a position in the outfield on a little league team. Likewise, they faithfully picked me up after practice at the gym when I was on a junior varsity basketball team one season.
I faithfully attended ballgames when I was a high school student, not because I was interested in the sport, rather because I was interested in being with my friends. I preferred the away games during those days because of the long rides on the pep bus.
Then when I became a parent, I neither encouraged or discouraged my own children toward sports. That’s probably why their involvement during their school days was as fleeting as my own had been.
No one could hear me Monday afternoon for the noise in the stands, but I softly sighed. Perhaps it was a sigh for what I had forfeited during my past. Maybe I should have taken more opportunities to join with family and friends and root for a team.
I looked from the players on the field to my family around me. They were a happy lot. It might not have been as exciting as watching a bullfight with Hemingway, but I was content. What a nice way to spend some family time together during the Labor Day holiday.
