Pitchers and Catchers

            By themselves, the three words are boring, but strung together they make the phrase baseball fans dream about all winter. 

            Every Spring Training is identical to the last.  First, the wobbly camera shot of workers loading of 5 million baseballs, 4 trillion bats, and 80 million cases of cotton-candy flavored bubble gum en route to I-95 and Florida.  The countdown box in the Inquirer.  Sports talk radio hosts turning to the optimistic Phils as the pessimistic Birds chatter hibernates for the rest of winter.   The romantic “spring baseball as a metaphor for new life” columns such as this are everywhere.

            Those lucky enough to travel to Florida salivate at the thought of 70 degree weather and Grouper sandwiches.  The rest just love seeing the boys stretching next to palm trees on the 6’o clock news. 

            I too associate Pitchers and Catchers with these things, but I think each person has a personal attachment to the day as well.  In the DiBiase household on East Oak Road in Vineland it marked the beginning of our season of Phillies complaints about Eddy Wade, Tito Francona, and the frugal ownership group.  With just a lukewarm cup of coffee, a folded over Atlantic City Press, and a plate of Grandmom’s biscotti, my Grandpop held his own Spring training right there in the kitchen.  I’d argue with him about a player, have a biscotti, argue about another player, and then have 2 more biscotti.  With her grandsons around, my Grandmom’s face lit up like a candle.  It’s one of the fondest memories of my childhood.

            He passed away on April 2^nd, 2010, just three days before the Phillies season opener in Washington.  I watched the entire 11-1 romp through misty eyes.  I didn’t have Grandpop to call after my man Ryan Howard blasted a John Lannon fastball deep into the seats at Nationals Park.  I called my Dad and mustered a joke my through the emotional moment.

            For years, I wondered what was it about baseball that made grown men weep.  (“Wanna have a catch, Dad?”)  I’ve settled on the notion that it never really was about the game or the team or the ’80 or ’08 championship.  Baseball could be replaced by soccer or the cooking channel.  When you’re six feet under, it’s not going matter how many rings your boys got, all that's going to matter is the effect you have on the world and those closest to you.

            It’s not about what’s in front of you on the television, it’s about who’s around you at the table every Sunday passing around the spaghetti and meatballs.   

            Since his passing, the start of the baseball season has meant a little more to me than just the smell of pine tar and figuring out the fifth man in the Phils rotation.  It reminds me of my Grandpop and all my family, living and deceased, and how wonderful it is to have a game that means so little bring so much joy to my life.  

Enjoy Pitchers and Catchers, everyone. And enjoy the 2012 Phillies!