I was never much into that poetic imagery of spring. As a city kid, I never saw a crocus or a rosebud within a mile of my house. If a robin had flown by our neighborhood, some kid with a BB gun would likely have picked it off. I was never quite as "restless as a willow in a wind storm or as jumpy as a puppet on a string" when March 21 rolled around. We solved our restlessness by stealing somebody’s broom out of their backyard and turning it into a stick bat. If a man’s fancy turns toward the fairer sex in spring, I was decidedly a late bloomer. I didn’t know I had a fancy until I hit puberty, and even then opening day of baseball season had more relevance than girls wearing short shorts.
Spring seemed like a tease. I don’t care what the calendar says, if you have ever been to a night game at the ballpark in April, you know what I mean. I still remember the time a friend and I went to an opener at night at old Connie Mack Stadium and, before the game was over, fans were lighting bonfires in the stands to keep warm. It was then that we made a pledge never to go to another April game that started later than 3 in the afternoon.
The best spring I remember was about twenty-something years ago when I took my son to St. Petersburg, Fla., to see the Mets in spring training. The best times with your son are when you both share the same passion. Baseball worked for us. He followed the Mets religiously with the help of cable TV. He went so far as to tape games when he went out at night. Watched the reruns at 2 a.m. Every pitch. It reminded me of the way I had immersed myself in the sport the first 25 years of my life.
That year, we stayed at a Hilton right across from Al Lang Field where the Mets played their exhibition games. We could look out of our hotel room and see the ballpark spring to life at about 10 a.m. when a bus would pull up and the players would get out with their equipment. You almost forgot these were superstars.
We hired a cab driver — for some reason I called him "Roy" though we never knew his name — who drove us around town without running the meter. He seemed to enjoy showing us the area as much as we enjoyed seeing it. St. Petersburg was essentially a sleepy retirement place back then. Half of it had fallen into disrepair and the growth surge hadn’t really hit Florida yet. In truth, there wasn’t much to do besides watch baseball. "Roy" made it as interesting as possible. He showed us some of the Art Deco buildings, and we could imagine how grand it must have been in the town’s heyday. We ate pizza at a chain and dined on lobster the next night.
The really exciting thing for my son was being at the same hotel where the Mets stayed. I really should explain why he rooted for the Mets, but I can’t other than he must’ve sniffed the greatness that would be realized while our Phillies were then-wallowing in mediocrity. We got excited just riding up in the same elevator as Mets announcer Lindsey Nelson and one of the team’s coaches as they talked baseball. We gloried at eating breakfast at a table in the hotel dining room next to the players and coaches, where we strained to hear tidbits of baseball gossip. Each night as we went to sleep, we would peer at the ballpark across the street. There is a no more peaceful sight to help a man and a boy fall asleep.
I am not the kind of father who enjoys fishing, hunting and the other tribal rituals that help a man bond with his son. Baseball helped bridge the gap back in those days. We had so much fun that year we decided to follow the Mets to Port St. Lucie the following spring.
But life being what it is, happiness is just the stage before disillusionment. The Mets won a World Series in 1986. They must have thought it would always be so. I know my son, in the eagerness of youth, thought so. But the squad fell apart as one by one the stars fell victim to the temptations of drugs and drink. Their glory days abruptly ended in rehab. Doc Gooden and Darryl Strawberry have become poster boys for troubled athletes.
My son stopped rooting for the Mets. His interest in the game waned. We never got back to spring training. Spring is a very short season.
