“The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” You are no doubt familiar with this expression that was adapted from a line in the Robert Burns 1785 poem “To a mouse.” Or, the more pessimistic view of life from Edward A. Murphy (circa 1955) that “Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong” – often referred to as ‘Murphy’s Law.’

On Monday, my wife and I had planned to be behind home plate at Camelback Ranch in Glendale, Arizona watching the Cactus League game between the Dodgers and the Cleveland Indians. Instead, I am home in Charlotte, North Carolina looking for movie reruns of “Bull Durham,” “Major League,” “The Sandlot,” “42,” or even the original (1951) “Angels in the Outfield” starring Paul Douglas and Janet Leigh.

I am a confessed baseball junkie; have been since I played my very first softball game at MacMaster Park in Torrance, California when I was a 6-year-old Cub Scout Bobcat. To say that my father did not like the game is understated; my Mother knew nothing about the sport, other than her only child loved to play, his request of Santa for Christmas 1951 was a baseball glove, and would a few years later adopt a team from Brooklyn, New York, affectionately called the “Bums,” as his favorite.

What was it about the game that was so appealing that I continued to play baseball or softball for the next sixty-one years; and continue to coach today? My wife (a very good softball player, whose father taught her how to play the game) asked that very question many years ago, noting that it was incongruent with how I grew up. I did not have an immediate answer as I never thought about it, only knowing that I adored the game, and the “Bums” who were my heroes, and sports role-models.

There are different kinds of love: one for God; another for your wife; family; friends and neighbors; and, then there is the love of a game or a team. From my very first experience, I fell in love with the game. I was small for my age, but God gave me a strong throwing arm, legs that made me very fast, and eye-hand coordination that allowed me to hit and catch balls with ease. There is an elegant symmetry to ball fields, the one at MacMaster Park (which remains to this day) was all dirt with a lush green outfield, both of which were immaculately groomed (at least to the eyes of a 6-year-old). The ball was called “soft” which was weird because there was nothing soft about it, and playing barehanded was a challenge (hence the request to Santa for a glove).

I still remember opening the box with my Rawlings Larry Jansen G-300 on Christmas morning, 1951. I put the glove on my left hand, and then buried my nose into the pocket, taking a long, deep smell of the tanned leather — OH MY, there was never a better smell. There was also a new softball wrapped in another box; I had never before played with a new, white ball. It was a glorious morning.

The following Summer, I took that glove and ball with me to my Grandfather’s farm in Oklahoma to have a catch with him. My mother told me that as a young man he was quite good at baseball, playing pitcher in games on Sunday afternoons on the south pasture with other young men who worked so hard farming during the rest of the week. I did not play catch with Grandfather, he never had a glove, and the rigors of farming made him much older than his physical years. Instead of catch, he told me stories about the New York Yankees (his favorite team), and the Brooklyn Dodgers who always lost to the Yankees.

I do not know why I didn’t become a Yankees fan like my Grandfather, but when I returned home to Torrance, I wanted to know more about the Brooklyn Dodgers — the team that the Yankees always defeated. With my weekly allowance, I would selectively buy baseball periodicals that had stories about the Dodgers to read about Pee Wee Reese, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Carl Furillo, et al. These were the kind of players that I wanted to imitate; great baseball players who played hard, with dirty uniforms, and a team spirit that did not back down from anyone. Even though the Dodgers were in New York, they were my team.

I still remember coming home from school in May 1957 with my Mother waiting on the front porch. She knew that I was a Dodgers fan, but she asked me “…if there was a team named the Brooklyn Dodgers?” Before I could reply she added, “they are moving here, Los Angeles!” I did not believe her at first, a horrible joke to play on an 11-year-old, diehard Dodgers fan. But she convinced me that she was not joking, that my beloved Dodgers would be playing in Los Angeles the following year. It was Christmas in May!

So, what does baseball mean to me? A game, the most wonderful game I have ever seen or played! I played coed softball with my wife for many years, taught my three sons to play baseball, and helped teach it to my grandchildren. A game in which I developed close friendships, and follow closely to this day. It means a team, the most wonderful team I have ever seen play the game, the Dodgers.

I still love putting a new glove up close to my nose to smell the leather, which floods my senses with wonderful memories. And hearing the magical words to “Play Ball!”

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