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At 12 years old, along with everything Star Wars related, there was, of course, baseball with my friends. Random broken windows resulted from batted baseballs, so we began to make balls with newspaper and duct tape, in retrospect a genius move. We couldn't care less if we lost the ball, and there were no more broken windows along with the inevitable grounding and ass-tanning that came with them.
I went to my first Major League Baseball game on September 26, 1987. My grandfather took me for "Reggie Jackson Day." Reggie was his all-time favorite player. Details have been blurred through time, yet I remember-being confirmed through research-being disappointed that Reggie batted only once in a pinch-hit role, popping out with runners on second and third in a 3-2 loss to the Chicago White Sox. After the game Reggie was in a bad mood."I'm not into talking about how wonderful things are for me when we've lost four in a row," he said. "I'm embarrassed. If we had won, it would be different. But right now, my esteem is low. My self-importance is microscopic."
I remember little of the game, but my memory was refreshed by looking at the box score. I recall my 12-year-old self wondering, "Who in the hell is Walt Weiss?" Just 1988 Rookie of the Year. I don't recall Curt Young pitching 7 strong innings, or any feelings or ballpark details, except the expansiveness of the field, my grandfather chain-smoking Marlboro "Reds", and pissing in a trough for the first time. I do, however, remember Reggie's at-bat. This probably destroyed my belief in pre-destiny and prepared me for the heartbreak and disappointment of being an Athletics fan for many years to come.
Without my grandfather's fondness for Reggie-his brash attitude and high strikeout rates aside-I probably would have never found my love for baseball and the A's. To me, Reggie was a legend and a mystifying figure who was on the cusp of retiring just as I was learning to love and appreciate the game. He was a Ruthian figure, honored by someone I loved; which made me open my eyes to try to figure out just what made this guy so special.
When my grandfather died, I sadly watched his children argue and bickered over his possessions. I decided right then and there that I didn't need an earthly remembrance of this man who was the biggest father figure in my life. A couple of months later, my grandmother came to me and handed me an autographed Reggie Jackson ball. I knew it well; it had the most prominent spot in the case where grandpa kept his baseball memorabilia. It was the gem of the collection. "I saved this for you," she said. "Grandpa would have wanted you to have it."
I love when the baseball existentialists come together to sing their songs of praise about the serene rhythms and mystic qualities of the game. It gives me a warm feeling. And as much as I love and adore the game, sometimes I feel as if these are all illusions because of a time and an innocence that I love and cherish - and that I'll never see again.
