Iannuccilli: I Hear the Crack of the Bat

Iannuccilli: I Hear the Crack of the Bat

My brother, an inveterate baseball fan, spends his winters in Florida. When I spoke with him last week, I asked if he would get to Ft. Myers to see his (our) beloved Red Sox. “In fact, I’m going today. I’ll be looking for a sausage sandwich.” He had Fenway in mind.

And so in late winter, though March madness has not yet started, the Celtics and Bruins are still playing and The Boston Marathon is a bit in the distance, thoughts of baseball creep into my head. Spring is closer today because of our mild winter.  I have seen the early blooms of crocuses. I am anticipating more buds and the pop of blossoms.  

In springs of my youth, the baseball mitts and bats stored in the cellar were awakening like sleeping bears, frogs and baby chicks. Away went the heavy coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. We spent more time outside, taped old balls, rubbed new ones, neatsfoot oiled our gloves. We played catch and took some batting practice, toting an old bat with a nail driven into the sweet spot.

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Not all baseball springs are easy. When my children were playing, my Dad and I watched many a game in frigid temperatures. Wearing winter coats and heavy gloves, we often hustled back to the car to turn on the engine and warm. The cold aluminum stands had the same physical properties as the new aluminum bats; one stung hands, the other bums.

The knock of the wooden bat was now the ring of metal, and a high-pitched ping it was. Feeling bad for the players and a little guilty (not much) for warming ourselves, we eventually returned to sit on those cold stands or stand behind the home plate fence. The first baseman was wearing a hooded sweatshirt under his uniform. The second baseman wore a toque and a windbreaker. The guy at third had a heavy sweater. The batters swung as if they needed grease. The pitcher blew into his hand. The outfielders were jumping up and down.  The coaches wore mittens and clapped a lot. “Hurry up, Kid! Throw the ball,” barked the umpire. “We gotta get outta here. Strike! Close enough.”

So what if we sat on cold bleachers, swung our arms to keep warm or ran back to the car. No matter. Dad and I were back on a ballfield watching the kids in the spring of our lives. Together.

Baseball seems to wake everything in nature … trees, grasses, flowers, animals, players, fans … from the long sleep of winter. Here are the last two stanzas of the Milton Bracker poem, Tomorrow! ©

And tossing the ball out
And yelling Play Ball!
(Who cares about fall-out-
At least, until fall?)

Let nothing sour
This sweetest hour;
The baseball season's
Back in flower!

Get out those gloves and bats! Play ball! The right of spring means allegiance to the game. To the game. To the kids. To our memories. To Dad.

Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and "My Story Continues" can be found here.