Saturday dawned like the first true day of printemps.
(I know, too precious. But there are times when invocation of French is simply called for, the language is so resonant and lyrical. I gotta work the word for grapefruit in sometime soon.)
My immediate thought when seeing the sun glowing through my window: It’s time to get back to the ballyard.
I am a child of Willie, Mickey and the Duke. (As NY-centric as that may be. I mean, I recall asking my baseball-loving dad what the deal was when the Giants and Indians were in the ’54 Series. Still very young I thought it was just the Dodgers and Yankees every year.)
There were actual toys in boxes of Cracker Jack.
Baseball’s were the sounds of my youth.
The crack of ball against ash. The thwack of horsehide into leather.
The lingo. Continue reading Back to the Jim