When I loved baseball

Now that politics and war are paramount in the news, I am grateful for one of the true blessings of my life – baseball.

Like most people who have managed to live past their prime, I hold that things were better in my younger days, and I believe they were better because they demanded more out of people – more effort, more concentration, but less, not more, money. And for me, the epitome of that is baseball.

Face it, baseball is essentially a boring game from the standpoint of the spectator. People have done a lot to make baseball more exciting, but it doesn’t work for me. I like boring.

When I lived in Philly I saw a lot of baseball, and I learned that baseball rewarded fans who paid attention. This was before instant replays, and if you were not paying attention when a great play was made, it might as well have not happened at all.

I later regarded baseball as an exercise in meditation. Paying attention was everything. Leaving a game early would have meant that I would have missed a 10-run ninth inning that the Phillies still lost 11-12.

Philadelphia was the home of the Athletics and the Phillies. The two teams shared the same stadium, Shibe Park, in North Philly. Later, when the A’s went to Kansas City, it was renamed Connie Mack stadium.

It was a huge, ramshackle wooden affair, and left field was considered the most dangerous position in the majors. That’s where the grandstand and the bleachers met, and Phillies fans were merciless toward home and visiting players alike. They sold beer in bottles then, and the fans expressed their emotions by throwing the empties at the left fielders.

Philadelphia was also the home of the Whiz Kids, the short-lived run of a young team that, in 1950, gave the Phillies their first pennant in 35 years. My hero was Robin Roberts. In 1953, Roberts pitched 28 consecutive complete games, including one game that went 17 innings. Pop had given me a baseball signed by Roberts with 28 wins and 7 losses.

The Phillies dropped Roberts in 1961 and he bounced around in the American League for a few years before landing with the Houston Astros of the National League in 1965. In his first game pitching for Houston, Roberts beat the Phillies 8-0 at the Astrodome.

And then came Aug. 26, 1965, in Philadelphia. I was there, among the capacity crowd that had come to see Roberts. We cheered him when he was in the bullpen warming up, we cheered as he came out on the field. We cheered when he threw strikes, we cheered the Phillies when they got a hit off him.

We didn’t know who we wanted to win, but we were glad to see Roberts back in Connie Mack Stadium. Roberts didn’t have it that day and was pulled in the seventh inning, but the Astros won anyway.

“Phillies fans played both ends against the middle,” wrote Sandy Grady of the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, “and the middle won.”

I am kind of an odd duck when it comes to baseball. Yes, I like to watch competence in action. I like to watch great fielding and great batting, I like to watch managers who strategize. But most of all, I like the atmosphere.

I am prone to root for the team with the best uniforms, which means traditional. I like stadiums that are not named for company sponsors when they should be named Taxpayer Stadium. Those would mostly be old stadiums – Fenway Park, Wrigley Field, Yankee Stadium – and some newer ones, Dodger Stadium, Camden Yards. I thrill at the walk through the tunnel-like entrance to the park as the panorama of the playing field is revealed at a walking pace.

Once a high roller I knew promised me a complimentary seat in the 1993 Phillies playoff game. He delivered, sort of.

It was in the topmost and last row of the left field grandstand, and the seat was broken. I could barely see the players, but I was with the crowd, and it was baseball with Phillies pinstripes.

Montana Viewpoint has appeared in weekly and online newspapers across Montana for over 30 years. Jim Elliott served 16 years in the Montana Legislature as a state representative and state senator. He lives on his ranch in Trout Creek.