Wake Me Up at the Ball Game

Bob Morrissey

If you’re like me, the older you get the more introspective you become.

Like what happens to us after death? That’s easy. My two boys, after perusing my bank records, will launch an investigation after discovering a $5,000 cheque made out to a person named Raven.

What is the origin of life? Astronomers still have no hard proof that life exists anywhere outside of Earth, despite trillions of potential planets.

Is time travel possible? Yes, after my fourth martini.

What is the black hole? I suggest it’s the gateway to a parallel universe, but that’s only because I Googled it.

What is the purpose of sleep? Shakespeare answered that in Hamlet: “To sleep, perchance to dream.”

How to be happy? Eggs, bacon and toast every morning.

Why am I here? I’m betting alcohol played a role.

Do we have free will? I might answer that — or I might not.

Who am I? In Quebec, you’re just a photo and a number on a Medicare card.

I feel like I’m going in circles here instead of addressing a question that’s fascinated me ever since I retired 23 years ago. It’s this: Why is baseball now my favourite sport, slightly ahead of hockey and football? I’m so into the game, I’ve started chewing tobacco and spitting it out, just like the pros. You should see the rug in my man cave!

Don’t expect my explanation to be weighted down by names, dates and statistics. That would require actual work. No, think of my explanation as random thoughts gleaned during my nodding-off periods — thoughts so profound I think they wake me up when in reality it’s my bladder at work.

The idea for this essay came recently when I sat through back-to-back baseball games. That’s eight hours of just sitting there and staring — just like I did at strip clubs. And even though one team led 10-1, my eyes were still fixated on the TV screen.

Why? Because although the outcome was a foregone conclusion, a lot of good things were still possible — you just have to be patient.

To me, baseball is like a slow burn; a meandering creek. Yes, the pace is deliberate, but each of those nine players on the field has the potential for great things — and often they come through. In hockey, NHL teams have four lines, but only the first two catch your eye. The rest are solid complementary pieces.

Same thing in football. Once you get past the quarterback, receivers and running backs you’re left with a bunch talented tough guys — great at what they do, yet boring.

But although each sport has its drama, baseball’s high points, in my opinion, are much less dramatic than those of hockey and football, which are off the charts. And all that excitement isn’t good for this 83-year-old’s ticker.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t watch hockey and football. It’s just through a different lens.

When I’m watching Cole Caufield of the Canadiens flying down the ice on a breakaway, my instinct now is to yell, “Slow down, Cole. Slow down!” And that’s coming from a big Habs fan!

When I see the Als’ scrambling quarterback, Davis Alexander, about to make one of his great escapes, I plead, “Take a knee, take a knee!” It’s like I only feel comfortable now watching the players huddle.

So give me baseball. Give me the meandering creek.

I know I’m watching a good game when I start yawning around the second inning. But I know I’m watching a GREAT game when I feel a tap on my shoulder and hear the words, “Wake up, Bob, the game’s over. Your Jays lost again.”

Now that’s MY World Series.