Tonight we get an hour closer to spring with the arrival of Daylight Saving Time. Much has been written about the rites of spring. A season of renewal, new growth, and of course, warm weather. Nothing symbolizes the awakening of spring for those of us living in the land of snow and ice, as spring training baseball. Yes, it’s mid 70s and sunny right now in Florida, and young men are dancing on diamonds. Last week, my wife and I had the chance to watch the ritual in one of the little gem ballparks. Roger Dean Chevrolet Stadium in Jupiter is the spring home of the St. Louis Cardinals and the Miami Marlins. It’s one of only two stadiums in Florida that’s home to two major league teams. It’s also the home of four minor league teams. You can get your baseball up close and personal.
We sat just few rows up from the field behind third base. The shade of the green grass and the warmth of the brown dirt can only be found at a ballpark. It had to be close to sell out of the 6,871 seat ballpark. I know it’s called a stadium. But, Yankee Stadium or Dodger Stadium are stadiums. These minor league venues are ballparks. The Cardinals red jersey and hats in the stands outnumbered the Mets blue. The dugouts and bullpens were overflowing with players. Only 25 players make the major league roster. So, every spring there are usually only a couple spots open for a rookie to go north and live the dream.
Only a couple of the star players on each team were playing. The Cardinals’ first baseman Paul Goldschmidt, just acquired this winter in a trade, was in the game. But most of the rest of the players in the game on both teams were the guys with the 70 and 80 numbers on their backs who were trying to beat the odds, and just make the team. One Met player typified the race to make it. He hit a line drive down the right field line. As he came around second, he was coming right at us. He picked up speed. The ball was also heading toward third base on a line. The runner dove head first. He beat the tag by that split second that always separates victory from defeat. The crowd cheered. The runner put his hand up to call time. He got up, and dusted himself off, and got a pat of encouragement from the third base coach. I don’t know the players’s name, or if he had any chance of making it to the major leagues, but for those thrilling seconds flying around the bases in the Florida sunshine, he was racing to show he belonged.
As I’m writing this, I’m getting video texts from my son in Texas of my eight year old granddaughter playing softball. She’s very focused. She takes her practice swings, and gets ready for the pitch with her bat held high over her shoulder. She reminds us baseball is a child’s game that never loses its appeal as we grow old. We continue to play and watch for the rest of our lives. The very select few are good enough to play for a living, while the rest of us wish that we could. Those young men in a Florida ballpark think they can be one of the few, and the hope that spring will blossom into summer in a stadium.
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