With the taste of opening week hot dogs still fresh on our tongues, I thought it an appropriate time for my immense passion of an all time favorite sport to be socially accepted: baseball, the greatest thing out there. Truly, there is no sport like America’s past time and there are no athletes like those that pitch, dive, grand slam their way into the Big Leagues. I cannot remember a time that baseball was not an essential piece of my life, and I don’t think there ever was one. Of course, would you expect less from the daughter of a pro? My dad (a walk-on at Rider University) was drafted in the 7th round during the prime of his junior year and pitched for the Atlanta Braves. He played with and against some of the sport’s major figures and was coached by greats like Bruce Dal Canton. Because of this, a majority of my childhood memories consist of playing in a sandbox alongside a field with the now stranger children of fellow players, walking around the ball park with the powdery remains of Fun Dip sugar surrounding my mouth, and knowing that my up-close experience to the game would forever endure. Perhaps this is why exhilaration strikes when the tall lights of a stadium come into view, or when butterflies enter my stomach the moment I arrive at the park. The most beautiful moment I have the pleasure of witnessing each visit is the singing of the National Anthem. Thousands stand together in shared anticipation, the players line the sides of the field -- caps held against hearts -- and the booming microphone chirps ever so peacefully “Play ball!”
As much as I love seeing the massive bulbs, smelling the scent of bright white chalk, and hearing the swift brush as the umpire cleans off the plate -- illuminating, preparing, commencing -- I am just as content stopping by the torn up, neglected field down the road. Here, I experienced small-town baseball at its finest. Watching the game from the tiny silver bleachers offers a view far less appealing than the towering ones of a major league park, but the game is the same. Baseball fans are baseball fans, and I, no matter where the game takes place, am one of them. Entering college, I settled for a realm in between. It wasn’t the show, and the players were slightly taller than the Little Leaguers. College baseball is a unique transition between loving the game throughout your high school years and living the game with dreams of catching a scout’s coveted attention. In this intermittent phase, the bleachers replicate only the first tier of those in a major league stadium allowing for the passionate, intimate environment of a son’s very first t-ball game. A more unique environment still is the press box that sits idly atop the highest row. Dreaming of one day following the footsteps of female firsts like Jessica Mendoza (the first woman broadcaster to join the sport), I never thought my first time in the announcer’s box would be at the University of Delaware’s. A unique environment indeed.
Another unanticipated turn of events: I would be managing the Blue Hen’s twitter account, a task I imagine did not exist at baseball’s start. On my first day in the box, I naively thought I would meet all of the players and my face would be one prominently associated with the team. If you don’t intentionally look for names and faces in the press box, do you really know who’s up there? A thought I never before considered, as Phillie’s announcer Harry Kalas is one of my heroes in the sport. So no, not a single player knew I was up there, and not a single player would for the remainder of the season. I was, though, promised an introduction with the coach. This, however, fell through, as he was not in the best of moods -- if only they hadn’t lost my first game. Putting my eagerness to meet new people aside, I adjusted quickly to the insane busyness that takes place in a room no larger than a large bathroom: there’s me -- the self-appointed social media ambassador -- the announcer, the stats keeper, the guy who runs the scoreboard, the kid in charge of music, occasional members of the grounds crew, unwanted entrance of athlete’s parents (yes, this happens on multiple occasions), and, on a good day, the entire live stream/broadcast/web announcer/multimedia team and all of their equipment. Not to mention a handful of each position from the opposing team. A tight fit, nonetheless.
Despite the obvious crowd and frequent overlapping chatter, there is a collective energy. We are all there because, on some level, we chose to be and we all, undeniably, love the game of baseball. It’s an incredible moment knowing each and every individual surrounding you knows the game, and there is rarely a need to question this shared knowing unless debating if it was a hit or an error. No, the view isn’t much better than sitting atop the grassy hill to the side of the field, but the perspective is incomparable. In a way, I did meet the players. I, both intentionally and unintentionally, memorized their stats, last at bats, number of games played, and briefly their high school career because you can’t help doing so when the conversation revolves around only that for nine innings. As you could imagine, this comes in handy while deciding what tweet to send out in a millisecond before the next play occurs. There is an undeniable joy when a ball is sent over the fence, no matter who on which team hit it because a beautiful hit is a beautiful hit, and a lighthearted groan when the press box phone rings with an unsatisfied coach on the other end. “Give him a hit, not an error.” Whatever you say, Chief! There is an unspoken agreement to turn up the music when an argument breaks out on the field, repeatedly check to make sure the scoreboard reflects the ~online~ book, respect the live-stream’s on-air time, even if they’re being louder than the announcer, and resist rolling your eyes when a herd of children stomp across the bleachers, rattling the entire box because the grounds crew has already told them not to run four times. It is this rhythmic chaos that I love.
To all those who claim “baseball is a boring sport:” no sport is boring, especially not baseball; you just have to let yourself pay attention to the details.
