“I believe in the Church of Baseball. I’ve tried all the major religions and most of the minor ones. And the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball.”- Annie Savoy, Bull Durham.
To many people, Holy Week is the most important week of the year. Fasting, praying, remembering and finally, on Easter Sunday, celebrating the supposed rebirth of Jesus Christ some 2000 years ago. Without imposing my opinions of Catholicism on you, I’ll impart on you one fact about my life. There is only one event that I have been attending religiously for as long as I can remember, and I haven’t missed a service in 17 years. Much like Annie Savoy, I worship at the Church of Baseball, and the biggest holy day of the year is Opening Day at Shea Stadium.
For some reason, this year, more than the previous 16, felt extra special. It could have been the lingering effects of last year’s spectacular regular season and exciting playoffs. Maybe it was the product of an offseason in which Mets’ GM Steve Phillips put together what might turn out to be the most potent offense in franchise history. Perhaps, however, it was a sign of some sort of spiritual enlightenment. On Monday, at Shea Stadium, I realized that Mets baseball, more than any religion ever could, gives me hope for the future and a reason to love life daily. Sitting next to my grandfather, I finally recognized why every November he goes into a seemingly suicidal depression that lasts until April, when he begins behaving like the happiest 80-year-old in the world. I’m not sure whether my “spirituality” comes from my blood, my brain or my heart, but to me, Baseball is a deity, and I spent this past weekend worshipping.
On Wednesday and Thursday, the first two days I was home, I played a total of about nine hours of stickball with three of my best friends and fellow parishioners. Our arms and batting eyes were far from midseason form, and the game was highlighted by four pitch walks and bloop singles, but we didn’t mind. On Saturday, five of us headed into New York City to see the only exhibit that could ever draw a gang of former high school football players to the Museum of Natural History, the “Baseball as America” collection.
My friends, however, had to go to classes on Monday (suckers), and, green with envy, got in planes, trains and automobiles to head back to their respective colleges on Sunday night. I was the only one who got to attend the culmination of the long weekend’s activities.
On Opening Day, everything was perfect. By the night of April 1, the Mets were undefeated, Rey Ordonez, a career .244 hitter, was batting 1.000 and the weak-hitting Jay Payton was on pace for over 100 home runs for the season. Leaving the game, I could not be sure that any of these three early trends would last. I can be sure, however, that for the next seven months, “day in, day out,” I can depend upon the Church of Baseball to feed my soul and to keep my spirits sailing and my hopes abounding until the last game of the World Series in October.
