Baseball void alters October tapestry of life
Robert Stevens
It’s mid-October, and all around the country, kids are getting
ready to do their homework.
Not any homework mind you, but the kind of fruitful studying
that they should have been gleefully ignoring because of the World
Series.
Teachers around the country are going into shock. A collective,
"What?!?" is being gasped. Assignments are being done, and being
done well. Chemistry books are getting read, work is being shown on
math problems and what’s worse, English essays are looking
distinctively unlike Cliff’s notes.
What is the world coming to?
Well, I can tell you where it’s not going to.
As far as I can remember, baseball’s fall classic, the ultimate
in distracters, has meant feigning school work. A realistic belief
that I’d get notes done in between pitches, questions answered
during side changes and detailed reading  the kind needed to
occasionally pass tests  done during soliloquies of vengeance
by Vin Scully, were all little lies I’d tell myself as my eyes
burrowed deep into the crevices and granules of the television
screen before me.
And in the end, once the last out was played, the fat lady had
sung or the ball had gone through Bill Buckner’s legs, I’d be no
better off academically than when I started.
But the funny thing was, it was OK.
My parents, the kind who would make a vampire go to bed early,
the kind who put As ahead of the A-Team, somehow forgot.
And then from the same place where youthful wonder and wide-eyed
fantasy are born, came the stories. Especially from my mom.
The stories never changed, really.
Gil Hodges and the Brooklyn Dodgers made her top five. The
plight of Jackie Robinson, the tragic accident of Roy Campanella
and the time she met Duke Snider outside of Ebbets field. And in
the cross-section of life where sometimes the memories outlive the
realities  that was real baseball.
In fact, I don’t know if the Brooklyn Dodgers even made it to
the World Series. In a lot of ways, I don’t care.
As easily as I lose touch with the teams of today (Are the Mets
still good?), the more ingrained are the defining moments of the
past. Steve Garvey’s home run in 1984 united my city and brought
together my family. It’s one of my fondest memories and my
enthralling first person account of it is but a vague memory of the
tale my dad told at dinner the next night.
In my memories of those days, "The Natural" intertwines with
"Casey at the Bat," "Mookie with Roger the Rocket" and chocolate
sundae syrup with my clean chin as the clock ticks to 10:14 p.m.
and I want to sleep.
With the exception of the Superbowl and a few trivial events
such as your wedding day, the World Series is one of the few times
that you can distinctly remember where you were, what you did, who
your friends were and what bathroom you used. The World Series is a
place holder for your past, it anchors the memories.
Hell, there was even an earthquake during the Battle of the Bay
in 1989. Honestly, who would actually remember it had it not taken
place before the start of Game 3. That’s how powerful the games
actually are. "Where were you at 5:04?" Watching the game, of
course.
Baseball is a lot like another national pastime, too Â
sex.
Not exactly of course, but both are slowly forging their way
down the same path. There’s a lot of selfishness involved, numbers
are important and for some, money is exchanged. But that’s a
different story.
Baseball is a feeling. It’s a 19-year-old Ken Griffey Jr. with
an ear-to-ear grin during his first all-star game, it’s an injured
Kirk Gibson crushing the Oakland A’s in one swing and sometimes,
even in 1994 when there are no memories to be made, it’s the
Brooklyn Dodgers.
If you’re lucky.
Robert Stevens is an undeclared sophomore. He is The Bruin’s
Arts and Entertainment assistant editor. Stevens has never written
a sports article  is it that obvious?