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Real Answers™
Copyright: © 2007 Greg Asimakoupoulos
640 words


By: Greg Asimakoupoulos

With the World Series upon us, I’ve been contemplating why I love baseball so much. I’ve also been taking time to meditate on the lyrics to the song I sing at every game.


Take me out to the ballgame...Not just any old ballgame. But a game played with a horsehide ball. Horsehide not pigskin. A hard little white ball. not a big bouncy brown ball or a black and white spotted ball. A game with bases not with hoops A game with home plate and not hash marks A game with catchers not keepers.
Take me out with the crowd...Not just any old crowd, but a loud crowd in a classic baseball stadium. Not a hushed gallery on a manicured golf courseor an elite crowd dressed  to the nines at a purebred track, but a loud crowd of every imaginable size and shape clothed in every imaginable home team apparel.

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks... Not just any old snack will do. There are certain givens for a game at the yard. The unshelled salted nuts.  The timeless caramel corn with a toy surprise in every box. But don't stop there. You just gotta have one of those over-priced hot dogs served up by those overweight loud-barking vendors.
I don't care if I ever get back...It's really true. You wouldn't want to be anywhere else. The smell of well-oiled ball gloves, the infield dirt and the grassy outfield are fragrances that make you wish time would stand still. But don't forget your other senses. Like your hearing for instance.The piercing crack of a wooden bat colliding with a 94 mile per hour pitch. That by itself is enough to raise goose pimples on your arms.
For it's root, root, root for the home team....From a solitary "Hey batter, batter" to a stadium-wide wave, rooting is as individual as each unique fan's response or as all-encompassing as the waving arms on either side of you. There are chants as old as childhood cheers. Ones like "Here we go Cubbies. Here we go!"  Or "We want a hit! We want a hit!" There are choruses of time-honored roots led by the man at the Wurlitzer organ in the press box. Everybody knows that baseball fans are not allowed to remain silent.

If they don't win it's a shame....Whoever said "winning isn't everything" certainly wasn't a baseball fanatic. The root word from which the word fan  emerges into the luxury box of linguistics implies the antithesis of apathy  or a comfort level with loss.  For the true fanatic, defeat is detestable. The longing for victory is the only thing that keeps you coming back to the ballpark game after game, season after season, century after century (especially if you are a Chicago Cubs fan).
For it's one, two, three strikes you're out....Three strikes. Four balls. Nine players. Three and two. A single. A double. A triple. A four bagger. A double-play. A triple play. Three up and three down. A double-header. Now those are numbers that make sense. Forget the new math. The old kind is the only kind that really adds up. Forget that dreaded report card. A scorecard is all that really matters.
At the old ballgame...An old game that is rich with tradition and historical significance. This old ballgame can still capture the imagination of an entire nation for two weeks every October. Just listen to the song the faithful continue to sing at the top of their lungs just before the bottom of the seventh inning.

A certain season for baseball and specific inning for a certain song. Wise old King Solomon wrote of such things in the Old Testament. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven (Ecclesiastes 3:1 NIV).”


"Real Answers™" furnished courtesy of The Amy Foundation Internet Syndicate. To contact the author or The Amy Foundation, write or E-mail to: P. O. Box 16091, Lansing, MI 48901-6091;

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