Still here

It's Opening Week here at my house; only the second I can remember paying attention to. When Opening Day broke last year, I was a baseball neophyte. I was getting reacquainted with the team, the players, the stadium and nearly everything else about this new version of the Pttsburgh Pirates. There was also a metric ton about the game itself that I was ignorant of. 

To my surprise, I had the good fortune to re-discover the game during the best season the Pittsburgh Pirates had had in two decades, getting all the way to October before falling to the very skilled, and very determined St. Louis Cardinals. I have the good fortune to know a fiercely loyal Cardinals fan through my work, and I spent much of last year, and have started this one, with an enjoyable mixture of friendly rivalry and mutual respect.

All through last year, and through the winter I expected the love for baseball to disappear, only to be replaced by something else. My typical pattern is to be captivated with a subject like, say, Star Wars, for a brief and intense period, only to see it slowly diminish, and be replaced by other subjects. For some reason, I always kept expecting that to be the case with baseball — "last year was fun, but I'm kind of over that; that was then, this is now."

Brother, is that not the case.

This year, I seemd to have graduated from neophyte to acolyte. For the first time, I watched Spring Training, and actived the MLB At Bat 14 app the morning it was released. I followed the Bucs, not through just a few spring training games, but through the entire 30 days — a period that another vastly experienced fan at work disdains as "practice." By doing so, I got to know some of the players in our future, and was even sorry when some were sent back to the minors. Last year, I was somewhat amused by fans who knew minor league prospects — now, I are one.

Last year, I was timid about started my subscription to At Bat, worried that I'd never use it enough to justify it. This year, I am eyeing both the MLB.tv Internet streaming service and the MLB Extra Innings package on TV. I doubt my finances will allow me either, but if money were not a factor, I would do it in a heartbeat. 

So, here I am, grateful to still find myself a fan, and for the second straight year, looking forward to the new season with a sense of optimism and excitement. Let's go Bucs!

A link to the past

I continue to be stunned by the performance of my Pittsburgh Pirates. Last year, I am led to believe, we had a promising first half, followed by a complete meltdown after the All-Star break. As I type this sentence, we have a 1.5 game lead over the St. Louis Cardinals, and are not only leading our division, we have the best record in baseball. Only a fool would be crowing with such a slim lead, and much can still happen in the 50 or so games remaining until October. But I have enjoyed myself immensely so far this season, and am still stunned that I happened to return to baseball, and to being a Pirates fan, at such a seemingly perfect moment. Again, kudos to my wife, who lingered on just the right game at just the right moment — it means much to me that I started following the Bucs at the start of the season when they scrapped the bottom of their division, and not after they had 60 wins under their belt.

I'm sure my grandfather is loving this. I didn't know my Mom's father all that well, as he passed away when I was 10 or so. My Dad's father was "Pap;" I called my maternal grandfather "Pap on the farm," because he was an ex-chicken farmer, and lived in a rural area of Pennsylvania. He and my grandmother relocated to Florida when I was 8 or so, and I think we visited him there one time before he died. While my father's father was the one who gave me a Willie Stargell bat, my other grandfather was, according to everything I have learned, much more of a die-hard Pirates fan. My mother has told me stories about how she used to be sent to bed at 8 p.m., very much against her will, and would lie awake in the next room listening to the games on the radio on the Pirate's home station, the storied and historic KDKA-AM.

Times have changed, but not that much. My own principle method for following the Bucs is not the family radio, or even our TV (although I have been blessed with being able to watch several games this year), but my iPhone, which carries the MLB's At Bat app. At Bat allows you to watch play-by-play descriptions, stream at least one TV game each day (or buy seasonal access to all of them if you have deep pockets) and, even better, listen to live radio broadcasts of the games for the bargain price of $3 a month. And If you're a Pirates fan, this means you'll be hearing the play-by-play on none other than good old KDKA.

Last night, as my wife and I cooked dinner, I plugged a speaker into my phone, and we listened to the Pirates playing the Rockies at PNC park. There is something indescribably magical about listening to a radio game; it doesn't have the immediacy of television, nor the instant ability to check player stats and monitor other games that smartphones, tablets and computers have. But there is something about hearing a game described as it happens by your home town announcers that has an anachronistic charm that is undeniable. When I hear a game on KDKA, I feel connected; connected to the thousands of fans around Pittsburgh who are listening along with me at that moment, and to generations of Pirates fans who heard games exactly the same way.

To my surprise, I also feel a strong connection to one Pirates fan in particular. More than once, as the friendly tones of the Pirates' announcers have filled my home, I have thought of my grandfather, sitting in his own living room all those years ago, listening the ups and downs of the Battling Bucs on KDKA, and been warmed by the thought that his grandson is doing the exact same thing 60-odd years on. It is a link to the past that I never expected, but am surprised and grateful to have found.

The Rites of Spring

It snowed a few days ago. In late March. In full sun, and with flowers blooming, and green grass on the ground. Weird.

Despite this atmospheric anomaly, I'm definitely seeing signs that Spring is about to emerge. Plants are beginning to bud, and birds are beginning to sing. The former pleases my wife, who is an enthusiastic amateur gardener. She seems to possess an internal clock that sends her to the local lawn and garden center a week or two before Winter's last frost — probably similar to the urge that sends salmon upstream. Whenever I find myself driving home from Lowe's with a new collection of potted plants nestled safely in the back seat, as I did two weekends ago, I know that Spring is just around the corner.

The bit with the birdsong is my part of our hearth-and-home equation. While my wife is the family gardener, I find, to my great surprise, I'm slowly becoming a bit of a birder as I get older. Oh, not the sort that takes to the local refuge with high-powered binoculars on the weekends. Not yet, anyway. But I am definitely much more conscious of our avian friends as I go about my day; increasingly to the point of distraction. More and more frequently, I will stop in mid-walk as I try to identify the tweeting thing perching on the light pole in the parking lot. And, more and more often, I remember to refill the bird feeders parked outside my window.

If all goes well, I am able to spare a little time on Saturday mornings watching the flurry of warblers and sparrows as they vie for sunflower and thistle seeds. And slowly — very slowly — I am trying to become acquainted with the birds that call the habitat of our nearby woods home.

This morning, there was the odd Tufted Titmouse (which I particular like for its slate blue and white coloring), one or two Cardinals (my favorite since boyhood) and — just identified — a sizable family of Pine Warblers, with olive backs and yellow chests. My chief challenge at the moment is identifying a mottled brown sparrow, some of which have highlights of bright yellow hidden amid their wing and tail feathers, and some of which do not. It is our most common houseguest, and so far, our most mysterious.

It is this sort of thing that I find appealing about birdwatching — the challenge of identifying specific species amid the dizzying variety that God has given us. It appeals to my intellectual curiosity, and gives me a tiny window into the diversity of His creation. Plus, I just like the cheerful little things; hearing birdsong has raised my spirits on many a grim morning.

The other herald of Spring is, for me, rather unexpected. The other day, my wife (good woman that she is), was channel surfing, and felt the urge to stop for a moment on a pre-season Pittsburgh Pirates game. Those that know me will remember that, as an 8-year-old, I was a fiercely dedicated Pirates fan. One of the highlights of my life was when my father took me to Three Rivers Stadium, and I was able to see legendary players like Bill Mazeroski, Roberto Clemente, and my hero Willie Stargell, play in person. Later that year, I watched eagerly as that same team brought home a World Series trophy. So in my first years as a fan, my team went on to take the championship — in retrospect, a bit of a mixed blessing, but one I wouldn't trade for anything.

Since the 1971 World Series, my enthusiasm for baseball has waxed and waned — mostly waned. I slept through the 1979, when my hero led the team to another World Series win. I was awake in 1992, when we vied for the pennant, but walked away in disgust after we were shut down by the Atlanta Braves. And for a long time after that, I simply didn't have it in me to care anymore. The once-and-future worst team in the league, the Bucs had lost their shot at redemption, and (even worse) at the hands of the hated Braves. Since baseball now only evoked pain, anger and bitterness in me, I more or less walked away.

My master, C.S. Lewis, says in The Great Divorce that for a thing to be resurrected, it must first be killed. And the type of fan I was then was certainly deserving of death, in the metaphorical sense. Baseball only brought out the worst in me, though that was only a symptom of a deeper problem that I will not touch on here. As such, it was good that I ceased to follow it, and that my love for the game, twisted and warped by bitterness and disappointment, was allowed to die.

Imagine, then, my surprise when those few minutes of Grapefruit League ball woke up the 8-year-old boy who had once loved the game. Since then, I have downloaded the MLB app for my phone and tablet, begun following the team's schedule, and have taken the first steps to learn this year's lineup. I haven't watched a baseball game in years, and I've got a lot of catching up to do. But that's part of the appeal — like birding, there is a complexity to baseball that appeals to my intellectual curiosity. There are players to learn about, rules to sort out, and standings to keep track of. It's early days yet, but there seems to be lots here to sink my teeth into.

The Pirates are, according to the admittedly meaningless Grapefruit League standings, among the worst teams in the league. But right now, I don't care. Opening Day is Monday against the Cubs, and as it stands right now, we all have the same record win-loss record. And so, it is with the spirit of optimism endemic to opening seasons that I close with a hopeful, and grateful, Go Bucs!