Spring and Birds and Flowers and Baseball

Baseball wakes everything in nature

A while back, we turned the clocks back. Spring has sprung.

I strolled through my yard today with a spring, near-leap, in my step and heard the cardinals, mockingbirds, sparrows, robins, and wrens singing. Screaming crows don’t seem to know how to sing. I heard the groaning branches of the Linden Tree and noticed flecks of glimmering light passing through early buds. Everywhere I turned, I saw flowers peeking- daffodils, tulips, silver bells, and crocuses. I so wanted to plant something, anything, but I know it is too soon. I had tomatoes in mind, but “not until Memorial Day,” said the old-timers. Oops, I am an old-timer.

The red-winged blackbirds have appeared.

The butterfly bush is popping.

The kids are wearing shorts. But then again, they have been wearing them all year.

We had little snow and ice, but it was cold enough.

Days are longer, and longer.

Warmth creeps in. Like the flowers, sleeping bears, frogs, and baby chicks, the mittens and baseball bats have made a move.

The air smells sweet.

I cleaned the golf clubs.

March Madness is over, and professional basketball and hockey playoffs are starting.

The Boston Marathon is here today.

Baseball continues its march. “Play ball.”

“Let’s play two.”

In my days in the neighborhood, away went the heavy coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. We went outside often. We taped old balls, rubbed new ones, Neatsfoot oiled our gloves, and began to play catch, take batting practice, and go to baseball games as my Dad and I did when my children were playing in high school.

Ah, there is a crocus peeking, a bluebird, a robin. Gray turns to Green.

Spring comes when it comes. I hear “Take me out to the ball game.”

I hear Basie’s April in Paris. ( Joe Williams sings)

I never knew the charm of spring

I never met it face to face

I never knew my heart could sing

I never missed a warm embrace

Till April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom

Holiday tables under the trees

April in Paris, this is a feeling

That no one can ever reprise

I never knew the charm of spring

I never met it face to face

I never knew my heart could sing

I never missed a warm embrace

Till April in Paris

Whom can I run to

What have you done to my heart. . . .

Poetry. Understandable poetry in song.

I see the kids in their new Easter clothes. When this happens, then I know we are smack in the middle of green about to pop.

“Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who made the morning and spread it over the fields...Watch how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.”

― Mary Oliver

Not all those games in spring were so easy. Braving the elements, my Dad and I watched many a game in weather that was too cold. Base hits meant stung hands, gloves or not. (We never used batting gloves.) Dad and I wore winter coats and heavy gloves and often hustled back to the car to turn on the engine and warm up while the kids continued to brave it.

The crack of the bat, once wood, was now the ring of metal, and a high-pitched ping it was on this frigid field. The cold aluminum stands and the bat had the same physical properties, one stung the hands, the other stung the bums.

Feeling bad for the players and guilty for warming ourselves, we sat on those cold stands or stood behind the home plate fence. The first baseman was wearing a sweatshirt with a hood under his uniform. The second baseman wore a toque and a windbreaker. The guy at third wore a bulky turtle neck. The batters swung as if they needed oil. The pitcher blew into his hand. The outfielders were jumping up and down. The coaches wore mittens, toques, and clapped with a muffled thud. “Hurry up, Kid! Throw the ball,” barked the umpire. He was lenient in his strike calls. He wanted to go home.

So what if we sat on cold bleachers, swung our arms to keep warm, or ran back to the car? No matter. Dad and I were back on a ballfield in the spring of our lives. And together.

Baseball wakes everything in nature—trees, grasses, flowers, crops, animals, and ball players—from the long sleep of winter.

Here are the last two stanzas of a poem, Tomorrow! by Milton Bracker.

And tossing the ball out.
And yelling Play Ball!
(Who cares about fall-out-
At least, until fall?)

Let nothing sour
This sweetest hour;
The baseball season's
Back in flower!

The Italians say, “Per tutto Aprile, non ti scoprire (for the entire month of April, don’t take off your coat).

And the Brits say, “Ne’er cast a clout till May be out.”

Even though April is the first full month of spring, there is still a good chance for unpleasant weather. I don’t care. It’s spring for all the right reasons.

But today, it is about enjoying the oncoming change in the weather and moments when we need to pause, listen, smell, observe, and be thankful.

The right of spring means allegiance to the game. To the game. To nature. To the kids. To our memories. To Dad.

Get out the gloves and bats!

Play ball!

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