The Crack of the Bat, the Roar of the Beast

It's Only Baseball

We were a family of baseball watchers, plain and pure. Pops loved sports the way Sinatra loved a perfect martini—deeply, habitually, and with the sense that it elevated life itself. Friday night fights, Bob Cousy dribbling through a maze of dreams, and most of all, the 1961 New York Yankees. That team wasn’t just a ballclub—they were a summer opera staged under the canopy of postwar hope. They thundered through the American League like gods on cleats, leaving scorched earth and awe-struck fans in their wake.

Ralph Houk’s first dance as manager yielded 109 wins, a pennant, and a World Series title over the Reds in five. But what we remember—what clings to the soul—were the M&M Boys. Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris chasing down a ghost named Ruth, as if it were a holy rite. Maris was the outsider, shy and stone-faced, carrying the weight of history like an anvil around his bat. He broke the record—61 homers—and still, some fans booed. Mantle, meanwhile, hobbled through the season with the kind of swagger only pain can buy—54 bombs, injuries, still the beating heart of the clubhouse. If Maris was cold steel, Mickey was blue flame.

Whitey Ford spun gold from the mound—25–4, World Series MVP. Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, Kubek, Skowron—men who knew how to win with dirt on their uniforms and wisdom in their eyes. It was baseball that sang to the blue-collar soul.

That was the bat I wanted. A Mantle model—35 inches, 34 ounces of ash that made you feel like you could tilt the world on its axis with a well-timed swing. Pops got me that bat. I took it to Playsquare Park, aiming for the left-field fence, where industrial league giants cracked softballs into the following postal code. That bat lasted one summer. Then—crack!—a pitch jammed me and snapped it at the neck.

I asked Pops for another Mantle. He brought home a Ted Williams. It looked like a pool cue married a telephone pole: thin handle, long barrel. Ted’s elegance was in precision. Mine? In dreaming, I was Mickey.

Years later, Kristine and I sat on the third base side the night Pete Rose’s furious 44-game streak died at the hands of Gene Garber. Rose went down swinging—literally and emotionally. We saw the volcano erupt. Atlanta, 1978.

I found myself years later, in a NYC bar, watching the 1980 Yankees. Reggie Jackson swung like he was settling grudges. 41 homers, .300 average, still couldn’t get past the Royals. Another epic failure packed in pinstripes. That team had it all but the poetry to finish.

Then came the Blue Jays—the scrappy, hungry Jays of Stieb, Mosby, and Barfield. Kristine and I would bike down to the CNE, lean against fences, and let Tom Cheek’s voice carry the game into our bloodstream. Those weren’t just baseball games—they were rituals, unsponsored and raw.

And then—spring 1992. Dunedin, Florida. Kristine and I, thanks to radio giant J Robert Woods, are tossed into the magic. There’s Cito. There’s Gruber, aging but still golden. Alomar, Carter, White, Olerud. A squad with the composure of champs and the soul of underdogs. And Dave Winfield—bellowing “Winfield wants noise!” like a preacher calling the faithful. First title. First joy.

Now, I sit with my longtime baseball pal Wayne Webster, twenty-five seasons running, and we catch the day like an outfield fly—light, floating, and entirely catchable. Jays are on a tear—51–38 before the All-Star break. But even in joy comes dismay.

The stadium has become a cauldron of grotesque noise—EDM blast beats, clowning Drake interludes, and sonic assaults that jolt the senses like a cattle prod to the medulla. “MAKE SOME NOISE,” the scoreboard commands like a deranged cult leader. I look over, five-year-olds flinching like they've been tasered. Wayne and I exchange a silent scream.

I tell him about Atlanta. Dylan’s bassist, Harvey Brooks, and I were sitting in the cheap seats for $2, passing a joint, watching baseball like it was a religion. No fireworks. No fanfare. Just the game—sacred and untouched.

That’s what’s missing now—the silence between the pitches. The heartbeat of the ballpark is when the crowd holds its breath—the poetry of pause. Every stadium moment now must be filled, as if modern life can’t abide a second of reflection.

Call me a relic. I don’t mind. I’ll still ride with this Jays team. I’ll take the George Springer clutch hits, the celebratory home run jacket, the pitching brilliance, and the hope. I’ll mute the chaos and hang on to the grace.

Because for some of us, baseball isn’t just a game. It’s memory. It’s heartbeat. It’s the sound of Pops yelling at the TV. The smell of broken ash. The dream of one more swing that clears the fence.