We all had different skill levels, but my brother usually pitched (sometimes for both teams). I remember that as I would flail away helplessly at each pitch, I'd hear him yelling at me from the pitcher's mound: “Choke up on the bat!!” (the “dammit” being implied). Well, I could hardly see him in the summer dusk, never mind the baseball, and I'm afraid it showed. And “choke up on the bat?!” What did that mean, anyway? Did bats have necks??
As I stood in the “batter's box”, baffled, I could feel the disapproval of my silent teammates. The air was so still, that above the steady drone of cicadas and tree frogs we could all hear our shortstop's mother calling him home for the night, but pretended not to notice. This was serious business.
Eventually, my brother would stalk from the mound, rearrange my hands in what I could only assume was a “choked” position, and return to the mound—all so he could blow it by me with a clear conscience. It was mortifying, but par for the course at that age.
You see, growing up I was the youngest of three kids: My sister was four years older than me, and my brother, eight. And those of you who are the youngest in your family know what that means: I played the dual roles of being the pampered baby of the family (allegedly), while also being the constant target of gang teasing by my older siblings. I was also the one who had to “ride the hump” in the back seat during family car trips, seated between my brother and sister and being constantly shoved back and forth if I dared to move in either direction. (But I would have my revenge as only a kid could, for I was prone to carsickness and I knew how to use it!)
For the first fourteen years of my existence, I shared a room with my sister, and for seven of those years, we shared a double bed. I refer to this period of my life as “doing time”. Being older than me (and therefore bigger), my sister would hog the blankets and the bed until eventually forcing me out of bed and onto the floor. It was a nightly ritual. For seven years, I learned to dress for bed in layers and to wear a helmet. Being in such close proximity, it's only natural that my sister and I argued a lot, playing starring roles in each other's weekly confessionals at church.
But things were a bit different with my brother. He seemed somehow “exotic” and “worldly” to me. I don't know if it was because he was so much older than me, or just because I didn't have to share a room with him! But for whatever reason, I looked up to him, and that meant trying to do the things that he did. I read the same books, listened to the same music, even studied his Boy Scout handbook (especially the section on tourniquets with the gruesome illustrations). But more than anything, that meant living and breathing baseball, whether I liked it or not! And at first, I. DID. NOT.
But a funny thing happened: Through osmosis, I learned to love the game on its own merits. I remember racing home from school to listen to the spring training games on the radio. I watched the regular season games on television, and I studied the box scores. Summers were lived to the soundtrack of Red Sox baseball.
That was such an innocent time for me—and for baseball. The game was still steroid-free, and it was still a game, not so much the business it seems to have become. And it had a simplicity that appealed to me at that age: There were clear cut good guys (the Red Sox, of course) and bad guys (everybody else, but especially the New. York. Yankees).
A local columnist once described Red Sox fandom as being the equivalent of a yearly reenactment of the “Stations of the Cross”. But I could never be that cynical (and being raised Catholic, I could never get away with being that blasphemous either, but that's another story for another day). Instead, what I did was revel in every Red Sox victory, whether they made the playoffs or not (which was just as well, since in those days they seldom did). And I enjoyed the bond I shared with my brother over baseball.
Now, this is not to suggest that my relationship with my brother was perfect. Far from it. Like any older brother worth his salt, he was endlessly irritating. He would tease me relentlessly (and still does), and he wasn't always the best of role models. I can still remember that when he would babysit for my sister and me, he'd make raw cake batter for our supper and call it a night. But I cried when he moved out of my parents' house. It felt like the end of something. And it was. But baseball remained a constant between us.
At Christmastime, I'd give him The Baseball Encyclopedia and a subscription to The Sporting News. He'd give me tickets to Opening Day, and we'd go together. When I married my husband, my brother walked me down the aisle (but only after confirming I had not planned my wedding on a date that would conflict with the baseball playoff schedule (AS IF!)).
Through the years, common interests have come and gone, but baseball was always there to keep the lines of communication open between us, even during those awkward times when we otherwise didn't know what to say to each other. Even today, when I hear Red Sox news, I find myself thinking, “I need to give my brother a call”.
For I like to think of baseball not only as a harbinger of spring, but as something that can bring people together who might never connect: People of different nationalities; different political persuasions; and especially different generations.
And now, another new Red Sox season is upon us. For all our differences, we will collectively watch that first pitch, sharing the moment but each alone with our memories. Mine will be of a hot summer evening in a tree-lined clearing, my brother's voice calling out to me to “choke up on the bat!” (with the “dammit” being implied).
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