By George Vecsey
In Baseball, one of many nice bards of America’s Grand previous online game supplies a rousing account of the game, from its pre-Republic roots to the current day. George Vecsey casts a clean eye at the online game, illuminates its foibles and triumphs, and plays a fabulous feat: creating a vintage tale appear refreshingly new.
Baseball is a story of America’s can-do spirit, during which stalwart immigrants reminiscent of Henry Chadwick may possibly transplant cricket and rounders into the fertile American tradition and during which die-hard unionist baseballers equivalent to Charles Comiskey and Connie Mack may well ultimately develop into the tightfisted avatars of the game’s big-money institution. It’s a party of such underdogs as a rag-armed catcher grew to become proprietor named department Rickey and a sure-handed fielder named Curt Flood, either one of whom flourished as actual nice males of background. yet such a lot of all, Baseball is a testomony to the unbreakable bond among our nation’s hobby and the lovers, who’ve remained unswerving in the course of the fifty-year-long interdict on black athletes, the Black Sox scandal, franchise relocation, and using performance-enhancing medicines by way of a few significant stars.
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Extra info for Baseball: A History of America's Favorite Game
Mine, mine, mine. indd 7 12/19/2006 12:46:33 PM The afternoon my parents phoned to tell me that I was in the Hall of Fame, my immediate reaction was that any good tidings that might come my way in life from that moment on would simply be gravy. The Hall of Fame. There had been no voting of course, no emotional induction ceremony. There is no weathered uniform or bruised home run ball on display. In my life I have played somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty innings of organized baseball, less than most American boys have played by the age of nine, but enough to warrant a plaque at Cooperstown that reads, in part, The ’s saw women make the rosters and, eventually, the starting lineups of men’s college baseball teams.
She did not want to embarrass me by coming down to the ﬁeld and sitting alone in the rickety bleachers—nobody else’s parents ever came—but she sat up there in the parking lot and watched every inning of every game, regardless of the fact that I almost never played. The last day of the season, the day I had my ﬁrst and only start, my father took the afternoon off from work and he and my mother both sat in that car and watched what turned out to be the ﬁnal game of my baseball career. Later that day my father admitted it had been difﬁcult to remain in the car.
When I ate that week I tasted how much I wanted to play; when I listened to music I heard how much I wanted to play; everything I laid eyes on told me: I just wanted to play. The very possibility made the world seem ripe. I walked into the organizational meeting on that Friday afternoon and began my baseball career. I was nervous, more than a little embarrassed; my main goal at that point (and throughout the season) was to not cause anyone on the team discomfort. I was not looking for controversy, just the opposite.