The winter of 1997-1998 was a really bad one for me on the ole "famous person death list". First we lost Chris Farley just a week before Christmas, and then Harry Caray at the onset of spring training.Thanks for all the good times, and teaching me how to be a functional alcoholic. Now that we've made 100 years without winning the big one, hopefully we can pull it off now that we have Fukudome.
How 'bout one more for the road, big guy:
A One!... A Two!... A Three!...Harry Christopher Carabina
Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
I don't care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the CUB-BIES,
If they don't win, it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game.
March 1st, 1914 - February 18th, 1998
Labels: baseball, Cubs, Harry Caray, JayBandit
Baseball's first game is tonight, the St. Louis Cardinals vs. the New York Mets. Baseball has a mystical quality, one that has been touched but never captured by even the most deft American writers. Walking up the stairs and seeing Wrigley Field on a Sunny and blue-skied day is as close to walking into Heaven as you can get without the inconvenience of dying.
Baseball has always been part of my life. Many of the big figures who have died in my life have been part of my baseball life. My coach, my Grandpa, my fan. There's something about the slow pace of the game, the interaction with nature, and the human bonds that form which make baseball unmistakably different from any other game. It is, in fact, a game...not a sport.
Baseball has always been part of my life. Many of the big figures who have died in my life have been part of my baseball life. My coach, my Grandpa, my fan. There's something about the slow pace of the game, the interaction with nature, and the human bonds that form which make baseball unmistakably different from any other game. It is, in fact, a game...not a sport.
Perhaps the only fitting explanation is to simply acknowledge its elusive mystique, its indefinable allure, and its ability to make grown men cry. When Field of Dreams begins its ending scenes and Ray Kinsella asks “Hey, Dad... you wanna have a catch?” there isn’t a chance that I won’t cry.
Labels: baseball, Billy Joe Mills
