2/22/23: Bracy Baseball Column

By Aaron Bracy

February 22, 2023

@Aaron_Bracy 

What is it about baseball?

What is it about the game that touches our soul?

This week, the Phillies reported to spring training. That yearly ritual has brought a peace over us, a renewal, a hope.

But why?

For me, I think, it has a lot to do with a cold, gray day last December.

I looked out at the diamond. It was shabby. There were no bases. There were no dugouts. Grass had overtaken the infield dirt. It was a ball field only in my memories.

The fence still surrounded this sad and raggedy diamond. But the gate was locked shut. How would I get in?

Luckily, there was a hole in the fence. I bent down, first sticking my head through, then wiggling my body oh so carefully and, finally, pulling one leg at a time between the small opening while hoping not to rip my clothes or, worse, injure myself on the jagged metal.

I safely and happily made it through. Then, I stared out at the field from home plate. It looked much different than it did 40 or so years ago. In my mind, however, this long-neglected baseball field in Willingboro, N.J., the former home of CYO Little League, was pristine.

I could see it.

The field of my youth.

A sacred place.

My field of dreams. 

I was here to remember and, hopefully, heal. The day before, my Dad died after a short and unexpected illness. Our relationship, as probably many children of divorce can relate, was complicated. Trying to foster the closeness you sought wasn’t easy when the visits were every other weekend. There were other issues, too much to deal with in this space.

However, the relationship was strongest around sports. Baseball helped heal the wounds. Like many children, my Dad taught me the game. 

Here, at CYO field, he would hit me grounders, pitch to me and catch my fastballs. 

Here, at CYO field, I dreamed of being the next Mike Schmidt or Pete Rose (the ballplayer).

It’s weird, isn’t it, how certain special moments in time stick with you. I can clearly remember Dad picking me up after school on a cool spring day in fourth grade and going to CYO field. 

Nearly four decades later, I can still see it so clearly on this cold December day of 2022. I squatted behind the plate just as Dad did that day and looked out toward my 9-year-old self on the mound. 

A dreamer. A future big leaguer. A kid in love with the game.

The tears were streaming hard now as I rose from my squat and strolled toward the mound. It was just flat now and there wasn’t a pitching rubber there anymore. But I closed my eyes, climbed the imaginary hill and slid on my glove. 

The tears were coming faster now. 

I looked in for the sign, went into my motion and hurled my hardest fastball toward the plate.

It seemed so real, just like then, when Dad’s mitt popped and he yelled, “Strike!” And then pulled off his glove, shook his hand as if he’d just been bruised by a 95-mph heater even though it probably came in about 60 miles per hour slower. Confidently, I smiled, reached my glove out for the return throw and readied for my next pitch. 

The big leagues were waiting. I just need to keep throwing like that.

I was sobbing now. The loss of my Dad hitting me hard. And the loss of those precious childhood dreams hurting, too. 

I kneeled down, scooped dirt from the mound and placed it in an emptied plastic water bottle. I gave the mound one more glance, clutching that water bottle close as I headed back toward the hole in the fence. This spring, I will take that dirt and plant a tree with it outside of my house so I can hold on to that memory. 

And when I get back to Citizens Bank Park for Phillies games this season, I will be thinking about the CYO field. 

I’ll remember those special days. 

I’ll also be thinking about how I have shared my love for baseball with my own three kids. 

How I now pitch to my daughter, a lefty hitting eighth-grader on the softball team. Or hit grounders or fly balls to her. 

How I now catch my son, a freshman pitcher in high school, and yell, “Strike!” And then pull off my glove, shake my hand, and tell him how hard he’s throwing. 

Hopefully, they are feeling confident like I did. 

Maybe they are dreaming like I did.

For me, these are special times. More than my kids ever will know.

Maybe they are special for them, too. 

Maybe one day, they’ll come back for some dirt.

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Aaron Bracy has been covering Philadelphia sports since 1997. His byline regularly appears on Associated Press stories. E-mail him at bracymedia@gmail.com Follow on Twitter: @Aaron_Bracy.