Baseball season's upon us. A sure sign of spring. Along with relentless April showers. Insatiable robins hunting worms. Weeds sprouting up. Mud. More mud. Oh, well.
Astroturf. Batter up!
I confess I'm not a fan, though I live close to Comerica Park. (I do vividly remember the carrying on in downtown Detroit when the Tigers won the '68 World Series. That was a night-long, non-stop celebration.)
Though keen in my knowledge of similar human anatomical objects, I don't know a fastball from a curveball, a slider from a change-up, a split-finger from a knuckleball, a gyroball from a screwball (although I've met many, straight and gay, in my day).
I suppose I'd rather play baseball than watch it. Skip football entirely. Basketball's OK. (I'm good at baskets.) Golf's for lesbians. Bowling's for obsessive compulsives. Roller derby!? Don't ask.
As a kid in a neighborhood of lots of kids, I often climbed Clay School fence to play ball in the empty parking lot, and on occasion to pitch over – and underhanded. It was good, clean, pre-pubescent fun for a 13-year-old.
The only time I've ever seen internal stars in my life was when I played second base and a batted ball hit me directly, squarely, in the eye. WHAM! Stars. Dozens it seemed. I had quite a shiner. Maybe that's why I'm near sighted in one eye. Quite possibly why I'm gay.
My father and my uncle took me to games at Briggs Stadium (in-limbo Tiger Stadium) but for the most part my buddy-buddy tagging along was an after thought and had nothing to do with their sensing that I needed some butching up.
I was told that one of my two aunt Marys had dated a Tiger player some time in the 1930s, and the other, had created something of a stir in the 40s because she refused to take a popular player's autograph at a party. Given the opportunity I'd give in on both counts.
As a kid I also played Commando Training, a game of follow-the-leader. Climbing trees. Jumping off roofs. Crawling under cars. (I shudder now when I think of some of the crazy dares we did to prove we were brave "soldiers".) I also excelled at Kick the Can. (Even today there are a few I'd like to kick.)
Yeah! I was fiesty and held my own during those occasional fights for establishing pecking order – in contrast to exhibiting peeking order – that all street boys experience. I had my last fight at age 15, over a girl no less.
This Tiger season I'm determined to go to Comerica Park. The times I've been nearby biking when the games afoot I've been thrilled by the crowd roar that revererates and energizes outside the stadium. There's no sound quite like it.
I even bought a new paperback to get ready, "Watching Baseball Smarter: A Professional Fan's Guide for Beginners, Semi-experts, and Deeply Serious Geeks" (Zach Hemple, Vintage Books). It's an earthy, all-bases-loaded compendium, including this item of interest to gay men (and I'm sure a few moms). Heading: Grab This.
Qustion: "What's the big deal with guys who grab and snatch their crotches on national television? Aren't their mothers ashamed?" Answer: "They make certain adjustments to ease the discomfort from wearing big, awkward plastic protective cups in their underwear. (Of course, they'd feel even more discomfort if they got hit without the protection.)" To say the least.
By the way: "out" fielders play cup free. Seems it's a better way to catch fly balls.
Parting Glances: Ah spring! Play cup free!
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