27: Idylls (and idols) of Spring, and their subterranean counterparts

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by The Grinch

PALMETTO, GA – Spring, as a season, is traditionally about new beginnings. Metaphorically, mythologically, and even literally (don’t forget about all the various forms of flora and fauna that reappear). Even I become bored with my latest batch of stolen presents around the beginning of April. There comes a time when I stand at the edge of Grinch Mountain, reduced from my winter fasting, shed my scaly winter skin like a snake and emerge a smoother, younger Grinch with slightly lighter, glossier plumage. I celebrate by sacrificing a few young maidens (they flock to the mountain in droves), cracking a beer and turning on TBS. Well, at least until TBS decided “Raymond” reruns were a better idea than the Braves.

Anyhoo, every new baseball season also brings with it a new crop of young children as fans; kids who learn from their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, how incredibly important and wonderful baseball is and it becomes an integral part of their lives for the first time. Ballplayers aren’t lucky or greedy or mean or business-first to them, or even real people. They’re heroes. Genuine heroes that are looked up to as tiny gods. Do you all remember what that felt like in its pure, unadulterated form? The players know this too (though not as many as used to, alas), and many go out of their way to make a little gesture to kids knowing how important it is to their young lives. Watching it happen over and over on the faces of children on tv and at the ballpark are some of my favorite reasons for watching.

Thus I attended my first Spring Training camp this year at the tender age of 34, expecting to see lots of parents and kids down there getting autographs and sharing magical moments. I was not disappointed in this; there was many a kind ballplayer or coach, and many a happy child (and happy parents)…I could list
a number of scenes that were positively heartwarming.

However, everything was almost ruined on my last day by a large number of truly reprehensible people that made the entire experience almost collapse for everyone else. A bunch of thirty and forty-something businessmen shoved their way through the decent folk and spent the day making everyone’s lives miserable. They kept calling out to the players such gems as
“Hey, we paid twelve bucks to get in here, you guys gonna come over here and sign or what,” and “You know how freakin’ long we drove to get down here?” If those weren’t helpful enough, they finally started insulting Bobby while he was trying to observe batting practice, calling his intelligence, strategy and
morals into question quite loudly then demanding he come over and sign. When Bobby finally responded “I can’t right this minute, I’m trying to do my job” they responded “Job? You call this a job? We work 50-odd hours a week for 30 grand a year, now THAT’s a job.” Etc. Finally, the very mild mannered old man watching the gate came over and asked them to please tone it down. When a few players actually came over to sign anyway, these guys had stuff ready and charged to the front, knocking parents and kids alike out of the way. (One of them stepped on my foot to get in between me and McCann while his buddy glared at me from behind a camera tripod he was holding like a bat in case I made a move, forcing me to pack up and walk off before I started a riot).

I found out from others later that these guys had been around recruiting kids to go forward and get balls signed, then bring them back for 10 bucks. Another guy managed to track down Hank (who was trying not to be seen), got his autograph anyway, then got ANGRY because he’d signed in sharpie.

Now, I’m no stranger to ugly people, and normally this wouldn’t have bothered me, but it was all in front of the kids. Kids of parents who’d taken off work and come from long ways off to experience something special might remember those %$^#s instead of what they were meant to.

These kind of people, greedy players like Tex and A-Rod, greedy owners who do things like change TBS’ format (trust me, this move alone will reduce the Braves’ popularity around the country by a large margin), irresponsible owners who fling ridiculous contracts at players that throw everything else off
balance, Scot Boras (who needs no introduction), $7 beers, $6 hot dogs, $3 bottled water, etc…all this is leading towards the destruction of yet another sport I love (I officially held a funeral for NASCAR in 2002, and boxing died 10 years earlier).

I’m sure that we all have a huge number of fond baseball memories (many of which have been shared on this blog already) and I for one have no desire to see this get any worse. If (and that’s a very, very big if) I ever have any Grinchlets, I want to take the same pride in introducing something pure and wonderful to them as was done for me at an early age without
having to explain all the disgusting stuff that has risen to the surface of the sport like a bloated corpse in a sewer drain.

What can be done? Anything?

Or do we just let it’s distilled essence deteriorate gradually and eventually fade into dust like so many sepia-toned heroes of the past?

~Grinch~

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