What Baseball Means to Me

It is just a game, but the game means a lot more to me.  My love for baseball goes back to my early childhood.  I started playing so early that I don't remember the first time I played catch, swung a bat, or ran the bases.  Playing the game has been a part of my life for a long time, and it continues to be a part of my life in the form of softball.  I learned the game in my Mamaw's front yard on Joliet in the eastern half of Houston, Texas.  I still have vivid memories of taking part in games along with my Father, Uncle, and my Aunts.  I remember my black plastic bat that I learned to swing left handed even though I throw right handed.  My idol was any player for the Houston Astros.

The first five years of my life contained a lot of change, but one of the people that remained a constant for me was my Mamaw.  She would spend countless time outside with me.  She would let me take cuts off of the tee, pitch for me, and even taught me the basics of defense.  My Mamaw was a huge Astros fan and watched as many games as she possibly could.  She recorded games for me throughout the week, and when I would come to her house, we would watch them.  She already knew the outcome, so she would only show me the games that we won.  As far as I knew, the Astros never lost.  As I grew up, I would learn the true pain and agony of what it is to be a Houston sports fan.

I moved to Cincinnati in 1986 when I was six years old, but I never lost track of my Mamaw.  We still talked on the phone, and I visited when I could.  The 1986 season was a magical season for my beloved Astros.  We went to the playoffs and played the Mets in the NLCS.  We lost in heartbreaking fashion.  This was my first huge baseball disappointment.  Of course, I had to call Houston and talk it over with my Mamaw.  She told me that we would get back to the playoffs, and that we would do better next time.  She passed away two years later in 1988.  The Astros continued to be a source of comfort for me as life pressed on.

The Astros wouldn't return to the playoffs again until 1997.  They were quickly eliminated by the Atlanta Braves.  We would get back to the playoffs in 1998 as favorites to get to the World Series, only to lose to the San Diego Padres in the first round.  In 1999, we would get back to the playoffs and lose to the Braves again.  By now, Astros fans had become accustomed to playoff disappointment.  In 2001, we would get back to the playoffs again, and we would of course be knocked out by the Braves, again.  In 2004, it looked like we were going to finally break through to the World Series for the first time.  We were up 3 games to 2 in a best of seven series, but we lost the last 2 games only to fall short again.  Then there was 2005.

In 2005, the Astros finally got to the World Series.  Nineteen years after they first broke my heart, they made it all worth it.  As soon as the final out fell into the glove of Jason Lane, I picked up my phone and called my Father, and we shared in our excitement.  Our conversation turned to Mamaw.  My thoughts raced back to that front yard on Joliet.  I thought about how happy my Mamaw would have been.  Her boys had finally gotten to the World Series.

I have moved around a lot, and endured many changes in my life, but one thing that has always been consistent is baseball.  When I watch a game, it takes me back to that house with the wood paneled walls.  It takes me back to sitting in amazement of the great Nolan Ryan.  When I put on the jersey and lace up my cleats for a softball game, I go back to that front yard where I learned to play.  It lets me be a kid again.

As I sat in seat at Minute Maid Part in Houston this last April with my infant son in my lap, and my Father with me, I couldn't help but tear up.  This game is not just a game to me.  It is about family and heritage.  It runs through my veins.  I am very blessed with a wife who understands that.