(Originally
published 2/28/21)
After a cold
and snowy start to February, this last week turned mild and winter
precipitation-free. It's a welcome annual ritual, I suppose. At some moment on
the calendar—typically the waning days of February or early March—clues abound
that the beginning of the end is near. The birds get louder, more
numerous, and noticeably active as winter transitions into spring. The snows
melt and the earth reveals itself again with increasing signs of green atop a
lifeless brown. And the days get longer, too. Can the pansies be far behind?
Running my
errands in fifty-degree temperatures this week—with a complementary soft
southerly breeze—brought me back to a time and place: the change of seasons of
my youth. The sights, sounds, and scents of those bygone days came attached to
a fair share of excitement and grand expectations. Sure, I realize that extremely
chilly days are still possible and that some of worst New York City blizzards on
record occurred in March. But even the most potent last gasps of winters’ past
never derailed or circumvented the inevitable. Come what may, it was Play Ball
time!
Missing
now is the
passion of youth. It can't be retrieved or resuscitated
because it exclusively belongs to the young. It's the nature of things. Once
upon a time, the mere thought of Major League Baseball’s spring training was exhilarating.
Hope always sprang eternal for baseball fans in March. Our favorite teams’
records were always zero and zero. My team, the Mets, was tied for first place
with every other. Even though the spring training games—the Grapefruit League—did
not count in the standings, I nonetheless tuned into them. Hearing the three
voices
of summer and spring as well—Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph
Kiner—after a long winter’s slog—was especially uplifting. Baseball was back
and would be around for months to come. Could the summer and summer vacation be
far behind?
Then there
was baseball—of the small “b” variety—played in every incarnation imaginable in
the old neighborhood. From Wiffle ball to “Throw It Against the Wall” to
stickball, March was the segue. A mild one meant the fun and games could
commence sooner rather than later. I have got stickball scorecards from
forty-plus years ago—in which my companions and I kept records of the games and
cumulative stats—where our opening salvos occurred in March, usually in the
final weeks and days when Mother Nature cooperated. Our scorekeeping chronicled
the game’s date, its start and end times, and the temperature upon the first
pitch. Visible from our playing grounds was an Exxon gas station
clock/thermometer and area icon, which loomed like a colossus in the distance. It, too, is sadly no more.
Those were
the days. When the first hints of spring ushered in a freedom of sorts.
Honestly, I would not want to relive them hour by hour, day by day, and year by
year, but I would relish replaying the best moments, provided I could pass on
the worst of them. But since none of that is possible, I will just breathe it
all in and remember when the seasonal change brought with it a special charge
and singular anticipation.
(Photos
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
