A love affair rekindled

Even after a strike in 1995 wiped out an entire season. Even after steroids tarnished an entire era of play. Even after the Yankees, among other teams, tried to buy championships and wreak havoc on any notion of a level playing field. I still love baseball.

Perhaps it's an ever-lingering psychosis from childhood. Maybe I'm simply a purist, clinging to the notion that the game is, in essence, exactly as it's always been. A .300 hitter in 1940 was considered good, and the benchmark holds true today. Whatever the reason, as another opening day has come and gone, I'm once again realizing that I'm a sucker for the sport.

A purist's purist

There's an old joke that goes something like this: An old lady arrives at the ballpark in the eighth inning of a great baseball game. She asks the fellow next to her what the score is. He replies "it's 0-0," to which she responds "oh great, I haven't missed anything."

I've heard people say watching baseball is about as much fun as watching paint dry, and the odd thing is, I can totally see their point. To someone with only a rudimentary understanding of the game, it makes perfect sense. Twenty minutes can elapse without any action other than the pitcher and catcher throwing a ball back and forth.

Ah, but to the kindred spirits out there that immerse themselves in the nuances of the game, who scour box scores, who realize the infinite scenarios that can play out in any given situation, for them that same boredom is a tantalizing drama.

I'm old school when it comes to baseball. I'll take a 2-1 game over an 11-9 game anyday of the week and twice on Sundays (if Ernie Banks had his way). Why? Because in a high scoring game the lead is always changing, the previous homer is forgotten after the next one, mistakes don't matter as much and you're essentially left waiting until the ninth inning for the real drama.

I prefer a good old-fashioned pitchers dual — where every baserunner becomes significant, mistakes are magnified, the last three innings become a chess match and all of the small aspects of the game become paramount. Instead of waiting for the next homer and lead change, runs are precious and often manufactured — that's baseball parlance for things like sacrifices, hit-and-runs, walks, stolen bases and basically every other facet of baseball that you'll never see on the highlights of Sports Center.

The baseball gods

In a former life I must have done something good for baseball, because I've been luckier than that little martian with frosted Lucky Charms floating around his head. The first professional ballgame I attended was at the hallowed grounds of Fenway Park in Boston, Mass. — a proper introduction if there ever was one.

There is still the indelible image burned into my mind from the first time I laid eyes on the field. My family and I had driven back east for my brother's graduation in Providence, R.I., and our patience was rewarded when we waited out a two-hour rain delay and got to sneak down to the first row to watch the game. I could have reached out and touched Cal Ripken Jr., who at that time was probably halfway into his streak. Of course I touched the fabled Green Monster and savored every minute of the game.

Years later, two days before my wedding in Connecticut, we rounded up a bank of about 15 tickets for the Mariners/Yankees game at Yankee Stadium. Dwight Gooden was on the hill for the Yanks, and little did we know that his stuff would be filthy. He no-hit the Mariners that night, and to this day I've never seen a crowd that crazy, nor an energy that great. As Gooden was carried off the field to racous chants of "Doctor no-no" I'll always remember plastic soda bottles being hurled from the upper deck and bouncing next to unflinching security guards.

I was also able to luck into tickets for game seven of the Diamondbacks/Yankees World Series in Phoenix. Curt Schilling and Randy Johnson were machines, and Mariano Rivera proved to be human afterall as the D-backs upset the Yankee Dynasty. Despite being far more historically significant, it was inferior in energy and intensity to Gooden's no-hitter — perhaps a testament to the fans and history of Yankee Stadium that Bank One Ballpark in Phoenix could never match.

Baseball Nirvana

The one thing missing from my baseball resume is a visit to storied Wrigley Field. When I'm finally standing in the centerfield bleachers, beer in hand, bathing in the sun, profanity ringing in my ears, beachballs flying overhead and crooning an off-key seventh inning stretch, I will have reached baseball's highest summit.

? Eric Plummer can be reached at 263-9534, ext 226, or via e-mail at "eplummer@cdapress.com"