[ArRedbird]

There's a very nice nostalgic piece by houstoncard at OpeningÂ*dayÂ*isÂ*here... - Viva El Birdos.

It's worth the read as we get ready for the baseball season.

It reminded me of this story, written by Grandpa Boog. I haven't seen Grandpa's posts in some time; I hope he's still kicking around. He had a great insight into Cardinal baseball and brought a ton of wisdom and perspective whenever he posted.

Here's Grandpa Boog's story. This will get us ready for the Real Opening Day --
the day when men with Birds on the Bat run onto a green field to play a boy's (and girl's) game.

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Mr. Tebow's Vacant Lot and Spring
by Grandpa Boog
first posted 03-02-2000


Spring came at different times when I was young, sometimes in February. My brother and I always grabbed our ball gloves, which we had oiled down in the late fall, and head to Mr. Tebow's lot just a few yards to the east of our own house.

We'd grab an older baseball that still was serviceable from the previous year, grab our old shoes, pull on a sweatshirt, wear our stocking caps, and head to the lot next door.

At that young age, it didn't take long to get our arms loose. We'd play catch, "grounders and flys," and all of those imaginary but wonderful ball yard games that kids used to dream up. Our fingers would become absolutely raw in the still-cold late winter and early spring weather, but that was no problem because we were playing baseball again.

That lot still is there. Mr. and Mrs. Tebow are long since passed away. The big tree in what we called "centerfield" also is long gone. My brother's and my youth are long gone, and I live four hours away now, but about this time of the year, he will call me or I will call him, and we talk about Tebow's lot and the great times that we had there.

I often think that maybe I'll gather my three grown children, my six grandchildren, my brother, and Grandma Boog and we'll all meet in Tebow's lot for a game of catch, "grounders and flys" and whatever vacant lot baseball games that old men can remember from their youth.

I get this burning in my belly this time of year for baseball to rip a shot into the corner and thinking "triple." I'd probably just pull up at secondbase, though. I get this yearning for feeling the crack of my old Jackie Robinson 35-inch tree trunk of a wooden bat (I hate the *&^%$ modern sound of the "ping" of an aluminum bat).

I keep my old ball gloves oiled, the ones that the grandchildren love to use when they visit. I keep the ball gloves oiled that my children used years ago, the old gloves that they left here at home when they got married. They love to get them out and say, "Dad, I remember when you bought me this glove, and then you bought me this one when I outgrew the old one. And there's your old catcher's mitt."

And then the baseball stories begin, of their youth and of my youth, and I repeat the stories that my grandpas each told me about loving the Game of Baseball...and they played prior to 1900.

It's a link in our family, a connection between generations, a connection of people and life. We have a reverance for the Game of Baseball.

We become young again in the spring because of baseball. When I was 23, long ago, I moved to a small town and lived next to an 80-year old gentleman who also loved baseball. He asked me one afternoon to please play catch with him. I silently wondered whether or not I should or not. The man was ancient. His wife smiled and said, "He will be okay. Go play catch."

We did play catch. He had a glove that must have been 60 years old. He had bought a brand new baseball. The old gentleman still had good hands; he threw stiffly but accurately. "Always aim for the chest. That way, you'll be pretty close to being on-target" he told me.

Then the old gentleman goes to his porch and brings out a wooden relic of a baseball bat and asks me, "Young man, will you play pepper with me?"

I thought that he intended to do the hitting, but he gave me the bat, backed off an appropriate distance, and said, "I probably can't cover much ground any more, but don't make it too easy for me."

We played pepper for about 10 minutes and he was sure-handed and was aggravated when he couldn't backhand a couple of balls. "When I was young, I wouldn't even have had to backhand those balls. I'd have been in front of 'em."

His wife called us in for lemonade and cookies. And we sat there on his porch for two or three hours. I listened; he talked. The topic was baseball.

And now, I am going to the garage for a cigar. I saw a video clip tonight on ESPN of the first spring training games and got the "good shivers," something that my brother and I always get this time of the year.

I think I'll take the old gloves out to the garage with me, put each one of them on, pound an old baseball into each one, smell the leather, and just get those "good shivers" again.

Stay tuned.