…Jackie Robinson made his debut for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Near where I work in Brooklyn is the building where Robinson signed his first contract with the team. He lived in East Flatbush near where I used to work. The one thing I am not is a baseball romantic, but the city tore down Ebbets Field with such casual disregard all those years ago.

One of the most perplexing phenomena in baseball in recent decades has been the steady decline of African-Americans into the game. Some have attributed the trend to the rise of football and basketball. Another factor people point to is how difficult it can be, for reasons of space, to play the game in the city; the game needs considerable more space than other sports. These reasons all have merit. Still, Orlando Hudson of the Padres puts his finger on probably the biggest cause. In general, MLB has always done a poor job reaching out to younger fans, regardless of their race or ethnic background. It’s one of the reasons the game is less culturally relevant than it used to be for many Americans.

(image/Fawcett Publications)

It is a little anti-climactic when your favorite baseball team has its home opener after beginning the season 1-5 on the road. Nonetheless, today is the Red Sox first home game of the 2012 season. They began playing in Fenway in 1912, the same week the Titanic sank and seven months before Woodrow Wilson was elected to his first term. We do not have a television set, but I signed up for MLB TV this year and have been watching and listening to ball on my computer and iPad. I enjoy listening on the radio more than watching on tv; thankfully, MLB TV gives you both options.

As I said the other day, I have been taking some time off this week. I visited the Skyscraper Museum on Wednesday and yesterday went to Mercantile Library before meeting the Hayfoot for lunch. She is off today after coordinating consecutive nights of public events at the UN. It is a beautiful spring day. In a while I’ll probably go sit on our patio, listen to the Sox and Rays, and finish River of Grass.

Enjoy your weekend.

The intriguing thing about George Steinbrenner was always the contrast between his bombast and humanity. His mean-spiritedness was tempered only by the warmth and generosity he was capable of displaying in equal measure. Nowhere was his vulnerability more on display than in his relationship with Mary Jane Schriner (nee Elster), a young coed he met in 1949 and corresponded with for several years before both grew up and settled down with others. What was so touching about their relationship was its ambiguity; neither was ever sure if they were just friends or romantically involved. As happens often, the unspoken went unsaid for so long that it eventually became too late to ever say it. Schriner died last week, leaving behind a cache of correspondence the young Steinbrenner wrote to her over their four year courtship, decades before the young man was ever The Boss.

(image/New York Yankees, MLB)

Not long ago I mentioned that Fenway Park was under consideration for placement on the National Register of Historic Places. Well, that has now come to pass. Yesterday the ballpark where the Red Sox play was added to the list of 80,000 (and growing) architecturally, historically, and culturally significant structures deemed worthy of protection. Though I love Fenway, I was actually one of the people who would have preferred a new ballpark when there was much discussion of the topic in the 1990s. Others disagreed, and I understood  their arguments. As a Sox fan living in the heart of the Evil Empire I can’t say my mind was changed after seeing the new Yankee Stadium when it debuted in 2009. The old ballparks are filled with memories, but it is the people who made them, not the structures themselves. The new ownership decided not to go in that direction and I must say they did an amazing job updating and renovating over the past decade, spending almost $250 million in the process. It is not a coincidence that the team ended an 86 year World Series title drought after revamping.

Now, any further changes must adhere to strict guidelines and be subject to review from governmental and architectural authorities. Thankfully John Henry and his team seem to understand and are committed to the longterm. The Monster Seats they added a few years ago are fabulous and do not detract from the building’s integrity in any way. Fenway is a better visitor experience than it ever has been.

Fenway Park opened on April 20, 1912. The Red Sox defeated the Yankees 7-6 in 11 innings. Spring training is now in full swing and in a few short weeks the little jewel of a ballpark will begin its second century. Things could be worse.

(image/Wally G.)

A Civil War battlefield, a world class museum, and a beautiful ballpark are three of the places in the world where I always experience the sensation of time standing still. About ten years ago there was considerable talk in Boston of building a new Fenway Park, which I believed was a good move. After seeing the new Yankee Stadium that opened a few years ago I still believe a new Fenway Park would have been the correct decision. One did not realize how run down the old Yankee Stadium was until walking into the new one. Nonetheless the new Sox ownership decided to go in a different direction, adding as many modern amenities as possible and building the Monster seats. The results have indeed been impressive.  Now John Henry and associates may be rewarded. Fenway is on the verge of a listing in the National Register of Historic Places.

(image/Aidan Siegel)

For years Pete Rose has been a fixture on the Las Vegas autograph circuit. I didn’t think Baseball’s all-time hit leader could sink any lower than he did a few years ago when he was selling autographed bats and balls with the inscription “I’m sorry I bet on baseball.” Apparently he can. Now Rose is selling autographed reproductions of the document banning him for life from Major League Baseball for gambling. The item comes in a copper binding and is notarized authentic by a Nevada notary public. It sells on Rose’s website for a cool $500, but Rose will personalize your purchase at no extra charge. The only thing sadder than Rose selling these tawdry items are the people buying them.

(image/Kjunstorm)

Bill Buckner at a recent autograph signing

Game Six of the 1986 World Series was twenty five years ago this evening.  It will always be known as the Bill Buckner Game, which is unfair to a player who had such a long, distinguished career.

One of the talking heads in Ken Burns’s Baseball documentary said that baseball is a place where memory gathers. That observation applies even to bad memories, I guess, because nowhere is it truer than in my recollection of where I was that night.  In fall 1986 I was in my first semester of college and very much a Major Undecided.  I was also mired in a tenuous living situation the details of which are painful to think about even today. Watching the Red Sox down the stretch, followed by the historic Championship Series against the Angels, and then the Red Sox first World Series appearance in eleven years was what kept us going.

My grandfather died that September.  Throughout his prolonged illness my father feigned indifference to the entire baseball season, and post-season.  A few years later his friends told me and my brother that he was in fact watching every game, turning down dinner invitations and leaving the office promptly on game days to get home in time for the first pitch.  He never knew that we knew that, but we had a good natured laugh behind his back. He was only three years older than I am today.

Does baseball still mean something to me?  Of course it does. But not to the same degree.  This past September the Red Sox had the largest collapse in baseball history.  It rankled me, but filled me with bemusement at the same time. Especially amusing was the finger pointing that lasted for weeks after that final, exclamation point of a loss in the season finale to the last place team in the division.  I am glad I am not the same guy I was a quarter of a century ago, who was still trying to figure out so many things.  At the same time part of me wishes I could return to that night when baseball meant the world to us, and every pitch mattered so much.

(Image/Bob Reinert)