BASEBALL…THAT GREAT AMERICAN PASTIME
(…avidly followed by many, by others…not so much)

My interest in baseball never really had a chance of developing. First, because my childhood was spent in France, where they had hardly ever heard of it, and were more fixated on a bicycle extravaganza called the Tour de France, than anything else. Second, because my late father made the mistake of taking me to a World Series game between the Yankees and the Dodgers, by which he hoped to properly re-Americanize me. Unfortunately it ended up having the opposite effect…forever diminishing any real interest in the game by me.

It was in the Fall of 1940. The German war machine had run us all out of France, so as “refugee” American expatriates we landed in New York City. Both my parents were journalists, my mother with the Daily News, and my father with the Herald Tribune and CBS, so as a young teenager I had the best of that combined journalistic world, quite soon at home in New York’s street environment of the times, expertly roaming through and blending in to its varied neighborhoods and frenetic pace. In those days, a kid my age could wander all over from one end of Manhattan to the other, with hardly any grownups giving him the slightest look. I also soon discovered that I could con my way out of any situation with any adult who might decide to question me, by instantly switching(like a chameleon) into an absolutely “French” mode. It never failed me…especially with food and ice cream vendors (and especially so if they were female…for whom a strong French accent had much the same effect as catnip has on cats).

So that 1940 summer in New York City was an exciting time for me. Baseball season, of course, was in full swing, yet hardly making any real impression because it just seemed to be another of those strange “American” things that swirled around my particular world… and nothing more. At which point my father decided such an attitude was rank heresy, and calling for intervention, otherwise the odds were I would never, ever, become a real “American” again.

He was an avid (possibly even rabid) Yankees fan, so thanks to his journalist connections, he managed to get two tickets for the opening game of the World Series at Yankee Stadium, with prime seats right behind home plate. It was one of the few times I ever saw him so fired up with excited anticipation, as he talked up the event to fire me up about it as well. Sensing how disappointed he would be if I failed to show the same enthusiasm for it as he had…I did what any decent son would do for his dad…I pranced along the enthusiasm trail with him.

Then the big day arrived, and off we went to Yankee Stadium. I had to admit it was exciting…with mobs of fans streaming in from all over, vendors loudly hawking souvenir T-shirts, ball caps, pennants, others hollering out about peanuts, popcorn, crackerjack, hot dogs, and sodas (things I could really relate to!), so, my father soon had us properly equipped with Yankees pennants, and loaded up with our first round of “red-hots”, crackerjack, a cream soda for me, and a beer for himself, as we headed for our seats. Soon, we all stood as a fat lady sang the national anthem, some VIP tossed out the first pitch, and the teams paraded out on the field…the Yankees in their neat pinstripes…the Dodgers in their colors, while their fans and supporters cheered and jeered away with happy abandon…my father roaring away with the best of them… “Stomp those Bums!”.

Well, inning after inning, through all nine of them, the game went on with no hits, no runs, no errors…a pitchers’ duel all the way. My father and all the fans were going nuts, screaming their heads off. I…just sat there…bored stiff. What the hell kind of game was this? A bunch of grown men unable to hit a tiny ball with a big fat stick! What was up with that? I had great difficulty hiding my disgust and disinterest in the proceedings from my father, who by this time was glaring hard looks at me. The only good thing in it for me was that those hot dog, peanut, and soda vendors, kept up roaming by us, no matter how wildly the fans were jumping up and down. By the time it was all over, I was well and happily stuffed like a Christmas goose…from all those munchies and sodas…and totally unimpressed by the event. On the long subway ride back home, my father kept growling like a grizzly at me. In his eyes, the outing had been an utter failure, even though we had been present at a great game of the World Series…a classic one for the history books. Till the day he died, at 91, my father was still grumbling about that long ago failure of mine to appreciate baseball…that great American pastime avidly followed by many, like him…by others, like me…not so much.

As for the current World Series between the San Francisco Giants and the Kansas City Royals, I can only say that my disinterest has not diminished over the years. Everyone here, of course, is rooting for the Giants; but, being a St. Louis native by birth, and since the Cardinals are not in it this year, I’ve settled for supporting the Royals as their proxies… unless of course the Royals are actually from that other Kansas City (KS)…in which case…screw them…and…go Giants!

And that’s as “American” I can get about it…even after all these years.

CENTURION