Oh, Miss-Edith, you ask a difficult question, for something such as an affinity for our national pastime is not easily explained.

I've talked about it before (often � "baseball" comes up in more than 100 entries). I can go on and on about how much I do love the sport and describe enjoyable days at the ballpark, but that doesn't do the job necessarily. It doesn't help people who've never been to a game, who've never watched with someone like me to point things out. I think, in a way, it can be kind of like yoga. I can look at it and see what's going on, but I cannot come close to understanding how it makes people feel the way they say it does.

Baseball, for me, is a cerebral, intricate sport. I can understand how it's boring for many, and I rarely watch it on TV unless I'm alone or with another avid fan. But at the ballpark it's a different story. It's a game easily understood in person, and it provides for conversation with your companions. It's a game played by people of every age and understood by most everyone who plays it, no matter what age. It doesn't have the fast-paced action of basketball or hockey (and just as much as football, which has even longer and more boring lulls between plays), but it involves more strategy, like chess.

Baseball is a communal sport, played outdoors in the summertime. It grew up as America's cities grew up and it played an important � yet little-known � role in both the growth of urban areas and the history of the working class and immigrants in this country. Ballparks used to be nestled into neighborhoods, the way Wrigley Field in Chicago is, and factory workers new to this country desperately wanted something wholly American to follow in their spare time. Baseball helped fulfill that need (I studied this in college, as a matter of fact). Grade-school history books mention people like Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson and Hank Aaron as part of the overall discussion of America's past; I don't remember nearly as many references to football, basketball or hockey players. Baseball's rich history is now part of "Baseball As America," an exhibit traveling to America's biggest museums, and one I saw twice in New York.

I think baseball is best watched and understood at any level other than the major leagues. Watch the Little Leaguers at the park, go to a local college game, find your nearest minor-league team (like Round Rock northeast of Austin � a beautiful ballpark). There you'll see the game played hard, and for fun. You won't hear much criticism from the fans, and only the occassional jeers from a few minor-league fans � and even that is rare. Best of all, it's cheap, and it's a day or a night out. It's entertainment.

Huh. This morning I started composing this entry in my head, and I had a much more elaborate and annotated essay in mind. But the hectic work day has scattered my thoughts to the prevailing winds. So I will finish with another aspect I find fascinating about baseball: How it pops up in some of the most revered literature, from Kerouac to Hemingway. Jack even developed his own board game, which I talked about in the older entry I linked above (and I refer to that to refrain from repeating myself). He didn't just use the game for entertainment, he used it for inspiration:

During infield practice the Chryslers are out on the field in their golden-yellow uniforms and the warm-up pitcher is little Theo K. Vance, bespectacled and scholarly, testing out his blazing fireball at catcher Babe Blagden, the veteran of more years in the league than he'd care to admit to any babe he tried to pick up last night in the Loop � it's a spring night in Chicago, the occasion a crucial game between the Chicago Chryslers (tied for the league lead with St. Louis at 21-11 all) and the Pittsburgh Plymouths, the usual door mats of the league now rejuvenated not only with a new manager, old Pie Tibbs an all-time all-star great centerfielder and slugger, but with new additions like the kid outfielder Oboy Roy Turner, the steady rookie Leo Sawyer at short (son of veteran Vic Sawyer) and their new star pitcher Ronnie Melaney just up from the minors with a dazzling record and rumors of a blaaing fast ball. It's May in the Loop town, the wind blows softly from the lake, with a shade of autumnal coolness in the air presaging the World Series excitement to come, even the lowly Plymouths at a 14-won and 18-lost record hoping to be up there by that time now that they have that new wild lineup � but it's just really another game, another night, the usual gathering, cigar smoke in the stands, hot dogs, the call of beer sellers, the latecoming fans, the kids yelling in the bleachers (Friday night) and the old umpire like W.C. Fields in black coat and bursting pants bending to brush the plate as on a thousand other occasions in his old spittoon life � but the thrill runs through the crowd to see the rookie making his debut on the big-league mound: Ronnie Melaney, nineteen, handsome, with dark eyes, pale skin, nervous hands, rubbing his hands down his green-striped trousers, kicking the mound, handling the resin bag and eyeing the bright lamps all around the stadium, newspapermen in the press box leaning forward to report his showing. Old Frank "Pie" Tibbs is out there on the mound giving Ronnie last-minute pats on the pants. "Take it easy kid, these Chryslers can be beat just like the bushwallopers back home." "Thanks, Mr. Tibbs," gulps Ronnie as he takes a step off the mound and pretends to fiddle with his shoes as the umpire calls "Batter up" and the stands vibrate with the excitement of the opening pitch of the game.
� FROM "RONNIE ON THE MOUND," Good Blonde & Others