In the summer my Dad and I would cruise around New Jersey streets in his primer gray Buick with the windows down. I would run my hand through the breeze, while my Dad listened to baseball crackle through the a.m. radio. Classic Americana. My sweaty 10-year-old thighs would stick to the maroon vinyl bench seats, while we rode without speaking. He never made me wear my seatbelt.
I have a love of baseball, having never actually been a fan of baseball. I feel an affinity for it. It was something my dad and I shared, not because I collected baseball cards or, knew player’s names and stats; it was shared experience, shared peace.
He and I never had a close relationship. There was always a sea of distance between us, a disconnect. But being in the same space, listening to games, the same games he was listening to, made me feel like I was part of him.
In his car, in between my hazy daydreams of new Thundercats and summer camp, I would catch the crowd’s shock and awe over the radio. As the announcer narrated the action on the field, I imagined my dad and I were seeing the same fly ball, not that I even knew (or know) what that means.
For me baseball became soothing, comforting, and consistent. I knew that each summer it would be there, that my dad would always be there, even if he, even if baseball, couldn’t fulfill all of my desires.
Now as an adult, I still find that there is something about the sport that I have tied myself to, perhaps I have just fallen victim to America’s nostalgia for the game, for its rich history, for my own personal history. Perhaps I have just been seduced by it’s warm masculinity.
Regardless, I still lay no claim to a favorite team, nor care to carry on conversations about the players. What I do know is that when I think about baseball, when I watch a game, and especially when I hear a game, that I feel love. While never a fan, I have a great respect for the game and will always remain baseball’s secret admirer.
- Melissa M. Boronkas
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