Beginning of Baseball Brings Back Boyhood Bliss

I’m glad baseball season is here. I have always been glad when baseball season is here.

There is always the poetic allusion to springtime and renewal of the earth, but I always felt it more closely aligned with the end of the school year. Getting out of school -- no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks -- was a highlight of the whole year.

Football season means going back to school.

One time in April or May, I remember they called off school for some reason and Steve Lekowski and I took the railroad and the subway to Yankee Stadium and saw Bob Feller pitch against Spec Shea. Some things you remember forever.

Never mind that a 12-year-old taking the subway to Yankee Stadium this year is another kind of thrill. Baseball season is baseball season. And after school you could go to the beach, play punchball and listen to the games on the radio. Never mind that kids don’t know how to play punchball any more.

Baseball on my first portable radio got me through my first summer job of renting chairs and umbrellas on the beach -- and some sneaked-in punchball, too.

Itzhak Perlman is going to play the national anthem for the New York Mets’ opener at Shea Stadium. Isn’t that something? The Star-Spangled Banner on violin. At least he won’t forget the words. Fay Vincent will throw out the first ball.

It would be a gratuitous rap to say that in hockey they throw the first ... but, no, I wouldn’t say it.

Only baseball has the saga of Tim Leary, who started the third game of the season for the Mets in 1981, got hurt and spent nearly two years out of baseball, and is the New York Yankees’ Opening Day pitcher Tuesday.

In New York we will have the fascinating quinella of Davey Johnson and Bucky Dent and their races against time. One guy is manager of the Mets by the minority decision and the other guy manages the Yankees on the whim of the wind in Steinbrenner’s belfry. Johnson has to win; who knows what Dent has to do? Get up a pool.

We will also have the continuing melodrama of Steinbrenner vs. Howie Spira. It’s supposed to go to court in May. And may the best man win.

There are more savory things to contemplate. The best part of baseball is not what you see, but what you contemplate and reflect on.

The other day I bought a copy of the 50th-year issue of Street & Smith’s Baseball for $3.95. I remember those old covers. And I recently found in a treasure chest in the attic a 1950 copy of Dell’s Baseball Stars, 25 cents.

The cover line was “The Strange Case of Eddie Waitkus” and “Robinson: Half Man -- Half Myth.”

A feature was “These Rookies Will Be Outstanding in 1950” and “My Plans for Sam Jethroe” by Billy Southworth.

The rookies (loosely defined) were -- how many do you remember -- Mall Mallette, Steve Nagy, Bobby Morgan, Mickey Grasso, Tom Wright, Luke Easter, Everett Johnson, Al Widmar, Mel Queen, Chico Carrasquel, Bob Hooper, Wayne Terwilliger, Jack Harshman, Cloyd Boyer, Jackie Jensen, Ed Sanicki, Frank House and Sam Jethroe.

Listed under “These Are the Top Minor-Leaguers” were Bubba Church, Frank Smith, Norman Koney, Ray Cash, Sandy Silverstein, Dick Bokelmann, Walter Linden, Bill Lutes, Mike Clark, Roy Partee, Carl Sawatski, Cot Deal, Fred Postolese, Ernie Yelen, Heinz Becker, Steve Bilko, Coaker Triplett, Artie Wilson, Joe Marty, Roy Helser, Bob Bundy, Stu Locklin, Carden Gillenwater, Orie Arntzen, Chuck Workman, Norm Bell, Bill Macdonald, Gordon Maltzberger, Hugh Mulcahy, Les Fleming, Eric Tipton and Mickey Witek.

That was the time of career minor-leaguers. Mulcahy was the first big-leaguer to go into the Army prior to World War II and was trying to get back to the bigs. Arntzen was 25-2 at age 39 in the Eastern League. The others -- well -- scouting baseball is most imprecise.

A short piece on Ralph Kiner quoted Babe Ruth -- having seen Kiner in the process of hitting 51 home runs in 1947 -- saying: “Gosh, that fellow is just learning how to hit.

Players on the stage are irrational as ever in 1990. Some of them thought it was really sneaky to suddenly enforce size limits on the gloves they had been using. Such crust!

Imagine Steinbrenner exclaiming, “Poor Bucky!” because the Mets had rolled up the score in their first exhibition game. Steinbrenner built in his excuse by not sending his best players and then grumbled because Johnson used Dwight Gooden and Frank Viola in the same game. Amazing! Yes, poor Bucky, but not for that.

There always are things worth paying attention to. Like:

Watching Steve Sax and his perpetual-mobility playing style, and Don Mattingly’s grace on the field. I would like to see the Yankees in a real pennant race to find out if Mattingly can step outside his locker to be a leader in the clubhouse, too.

What kind of hitter is Roberto Kelly now that he isn’t hidden at the bottom of the batting order? He did hit all of .188 in September to wind up at .302.

Can Gooden can have another of those flawless seasons? With the help of Allan Lans’ personal guidance, can Darryl Strawberry save himself?

I want to talk to Dave Stewart again, and I want to call Jose Canseco’s 900 number when it is in midseason form.

Think of the wonderful contradiction of the San Diego Padres, owned by Jerry Kapstein -- the agent who gave no quarter but asked for a million -- and starring Tony Gwynn -- the best hitter in the National League and seventh on the Padres’ payroll. What was it that Kapstein used to say about the justice of renegotiation before he was co-opted by management?

I want to see if Bo Jackson can do it all and if Deion Sanders can do any of it before going off to football. I want to see Keith Hernandez play his role on the Cleveland Indians.

I want Kevin McReynolds to beat that terrible traffic out of Shea Stadium. To Kevin, the Wilbur Huckle Award.

Huckle holds the unofficial triple-A record for fast dressing while he was in the Mets’ farm system; he would hold the major-league record if he had been a better third baseman. Huckle would be at his position in the ninth inning unbuttoning his shirt with two out. Huckle didn’t know it, but he was in a race. On the bench somebody would have his shoes untied and his shirt open all the way down. As soon as the last out, the racer would run for the clubhouse pull off his uniform and jump in the shower. Sure enough, he would be rapidly toweling himself and there would be Wilbur, showered, dressed and heading out the door.

Once when Huckle was in the low minors the manager lost patience in a losing streak and began screaming at his players as soon as they got off the field. “Sit down,” the manager demanded. “Sit down and think about your mistakes. Nobody’s taking a shower until I say so.”

Behind the manger’s angry storm, there came Huckle, in all innocence, already drying himself.

Anybody for punchball on the beach?