Hope Springs Eternal

‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be blest.
The soul, uneasy, and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.”

Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man

We are in still in the midst of the coronavirus global pandemic that has forced schools, restaurants, and other social gathering places to close, grocery store shelves to empty, mass gatherings to be cancelled, and otherwise has caused a significant disruption to daily life—not to mention specifically the run on toilet paper, paper towels, and hand sanitizer. We are still under a “shelter in place” order here—Governor’s orders. Been doing quite a bit of gardening and domestic chores—what the hell is someone supposed to do?

Major League Baseball, March Madness, NBA, NHL, Kentucky Derby, the Masters, and the Summer Olympics have been postponed or cancelled. Our schools will be closed here at least till the end of the school year—the longest Spring Break in history. But this is not intended to be about how anyone should respond to the virus and its proclivity to spread rather rapidly—there’s plenty of good advice from scientists at the Centers for Disease Control and from state and local governments. Your reaction and response is yours to own. Rather, it is a reflection about hope and how spring comes every year, whether we like it or not.

Spring is not only about the reawakening of the natural world. For me, it’s also about the seeds sown in my boyhood. It’s not just about grape hyacinths, crocuses, daffodils, and the buds on the trees—Groundhog Day be damned. The beginning of baseball season was always the source of my eager optimism. Baseball was the official harbinger of spring—no turning back with spring training and opening day looming ahead. My team would be in the World Series come fall, by god!

Pitchers and catchers have always reported to Spring Training in mid-February for as long as I can remember—even when snow was yet on the ground. They reported to places like Sarasota, Bradenton, St. Petersburg, and Clearwater in Florida and Mesa, Tucson, Surprise, and Yuma in Arizona. They warmed up their arms at fields throughout the desert southwest and the tropics of Florida. They played in the Grapefruit and Cactus Leagues, which by their very names conjured up thoughts of warm days ahead.

Baseball has always been my awakening to spring and hope. It was the green grass, the smell of my leather baseball glove as I worked in the Neatsfoot Oil in anticipation of the coming season. It was the crack of the ball as it flew off the end of my Louisville Slugger; it was gathering that flyball in center field. It meant “pitch and catch” with my grandfather and pick-up games on the school field. That first scuff of green and brown appearing on my new, white baseball meant the season was underway.

The first series of Topps baseball cards would soon be on the shelf at Northside Drugstore, along with Street and Smith’s Baseball Annual, Who’s Who in Baseball, and Baseball Digest—each one like a fresh spring flower. Always a Cardinals fan, my friend Brian, a Tigers fan, and I would trade each other for all our team’s cards. I still have very few Tiger cards in my collection, and I am sure he would say the same about the Cardinals. What I wouldn’t give for a 1968 Topps Al Kaline…but I do have a Bob Gibson. I still have my cards—why would I give up such memories? Each card was bought with money from my lawn mowing jobs and a variety of other chores. My bicycle knew the path to Northside Drugstore whenever I had a dollar in my pocket. I could buy quite a few packs of cards for five cents each, with money left over to get a couple pieces of bubble gum.

I soaked up baseball books. I received the Baseball Encyclopedia for Christmas in 1969. It included the record of every Major League player to have ever been in the lineup. In its over one thousand pages, I discovered that Ken Johnson and I were both born on June sixteenth. Titles like Baseball Stars of 1968, Strange but True Baseball Stories, Great Baseball Stories, From Ghetto to Glory, The Incredible Mets, Baseball’s Zaniest Stars—among many others—still sit on my bookshelves.

Then, there were the Saturdays with Gramps. They actually began on Friday night, when my parents would drop me off at his house on Cherry Street to spend the night. We would sit together on the stoop and listen to the Cincinnati Reds on the radio, live with Joe Nuxhall and Marty Brenneman. When the game was over, we would retreat to popcorn on the stovetop and Cokes in the small glass bottles. We watched the Vietnam War unfold on the Evening News with Walter Cronkite. I watched the riots break out in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Convention. I saw the trial of the Chicago Seven (Eight) unfold on the screen. What was a nine-year-old boy to think? Was it the end of time? Not for me. Instead, I worried about who would be on the “Game of the Week” on Saturday.

Spring was driving up to that vast expanse of concrete and asphalt, Riverfront Stadium, in Cincinnati. A tree or two stood forlorn in the middle of this paved desert. The Ohio River offered a reminder that nature yet wound its way through man’s world. I would walk through the metal turnstile and then I would see it: a hint of green down the aisle, beckoning me to my seat. Then, suddenly, the full expanse of the field would open up as I emerged from the tunnel. It was my personal awakening from the gray, lifeless days of winter to the green, verdant days of spring.

“Opening Day” will always represent spring’s awakening to me. In these challenging times, I need that feeling of rebirth. For now, hope springs eternal.  

Camera Day at Riverfront Stadium, Cincinnati, Ohio – August 26, 1973