Baseball and Honor

My…. What a summer this has been. It seems this could be the “Summer of Nothing Really Monumental”;  yet so many things have happened.  

Let’s see… Ike turned a year old in April. Ike has been with us nearly 14 months. Mimi will be 11years old in a few weeks. There have been no devastating floods in town, despite there being some real gully-washing rainstorms. Bess, my old Jeep, rolled 200,000 miles. She now sports a commemorative Chrysler 200,000 Mile Club license plate frame.

Our oldest Grandchild turned 22, and the youngest one turned 4.  

Just for chuckles, the artery in my leg decided to narrow again, necessitating a return to the hospital. Fortunately, like most summer sequels, this was not as intense as last summer’s original release, and I was home the same day.

Yet, to paraphrase James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams: The one constant through all the years…, has been baseball.

My Lovely Bride and I have been very fortunate in that we have been able to attend several games of our own Lake County Captains.

Yes, I know they are a minor league team. Yes, I know they are part of the Cleveland Indians farm system. I know players may be here this week, and traded or moved up next week. None of that matters.

See, I love baseball.

The Caps are our hometown team. They are part of the fabric of our town, as integrated as the Chagrin River flowing through town, as constant as the waves of Lake Erie upon our shores. Recently, the relationship between town and team has vastly improved.

All of which leads to LB and me to standing in a line with several thousand of our BFFs for hours before the ball park gates open; in the hopes of being one of the fortunate 1,500 people to receive a Jobu bobble-head. 

For a primer of who Jobu is, search the film Major League. You will also see a much younger Charlie Sheen as well, albeit I can’t make any claims for his emotional state at this time period.

While I have no warm feelings whatsoever toward Jobu (in fact, my feelings are rather cool toward Jobu), I did have a purely capitalist reason for wanting one. LB and I determined we were going to sell that sucker for the best price we could get that night!

But, I digress

As we entered through the gate, after each receiving a Jobu, we were handed a program by none other than Peter Carfagna, owner of the team. I have never attended an Indians or Cavs or any other game where the owner was at the gate welcoming people. But, that is the type of man Peter is.

For Peter, owning a team is not a mere business venture. It is a passion of the man’s. He sees more than people at the turnstiles; he sees young children coming to their first real ball game. He sees loyal season ticket holders, many the same who bought packages for the Captain’s inaugural season in 2003.  He sees families coming out for an enjoyable evening.

Peter knows baseball is the great equalizer, the great unifier of America.

He also knows baseball truly is America’s sport; as much a part of our nation’s fabric as the myriad of cultures that make America who she is.

Peter also has a quiet, reserved respect for the sacrifice of our young men and women who volunteer to serve in our armed forces. Volunteer; think of that for a moment. We have no compulsory military service requirement.  We have no involuntary draft. Our service branches are made up of men and women who volunteer to put their lives on hold for a period of time to ensure our lives can continue in peace. 

Therefore, no matter if every ticket is sold, an empty seat will be at our stadium. A seat, located directly across from the main gate, overlooks the batter’s box and the start of the third base line. Black in color, it stands out from its royal blue companions. A chrome chain extends around this particular seat. As one draws near, the words “Reserved POW-MIA” are seen.  In partnership with Rolling Thunder, Peter and the Caps have ensured that while these unfortunate ones cannot be at the game, they yet have a place of honor.

Amongst the give-away, the Cleveland Sports heroes of the past signing autographs and the News-Herald’s prize wheel (hint; go to www.media.news-herald.com look for Captains August 1 prize wheel photos. You just might see yours truly and LB), there was a more somber moment.

The singing of the National Anthem was somewhat more special than usual this evening. A young Marine, a local boy, who had been killed in Iraq on August 1, 2005, it was his sacrifice, his memory, and in his honor the Anthem was sung that night.

The Men’s Chorus from this young patriot’s home church gathered about home plate, his father standing ram-rod straight in the second row. As the first notes were sung, from our seats 14 rows above the plate, the man’s tears could be seen coursing down his cheeks. The father of two Marines, he sung on; strongly and proudly.  

I stood, trying to choke out the words as thoughts of “What If?” ran through my mind. What if… our son’s submarine experienced an unforeseen hull failure while submerged? What if…his boat (yes, subs are referred to as “boats”) had suddenly, inexplicably gone missing? What if… being a rescue swimmer, he was lost while trying to save a shipmate? Any one of the hundreds of ways a person can lose their life at sea danced evilly in my mind. Would I be as steadfast as this man before us was?

The strains “… and the home of the brave” echoed into silence around the stadium.  The crowd remained standing as the giant flag was carried from the field by a score or so of local youngsters. The umpire called “Play ball!” and life continued.

As the game progressed, I would think of that empty seat above us. I would think of a young Marine, who gave his all that LB and I could enjoy a Summer’s evening without fear of terrorist attack. I thanked God for America, and for the American Spirit which still lives on.

Following a fireworks display, we rejoined our BFFs making their way to the parking lot.

The Caps had won 8-1.

Oh yeah… we sold the two Jobu bobble-heads.