Ashley Malnove On a Florida university campus that looks more like a chic mall than a sporting complex sits the spring training home of the St. Louis Cardinals.
The immaculately groomed baseball diamonds are out of place amidst luxury condominiums and championship golf courses that have been spoiled by modern commercialism.
Terence Mann and Ray Kinsella of Field of Dreams fame would be appalled.
But this is not Iowa. This is Florida-the land of oranges, old people, and spring training.
By the time I made my pilgrimage to Jupiter, Fl., the Cardinals were rounding into game shape. Scott Rolen was banging homers with ease over the right field wall. Fernando Vina was turning double plays with acrobatic fluidity.
In the two hours I spent at spring training, I was in heaven-faced with sensory overload. Which field to watch? Which player to focus on? I was a kid in a candy store-unable to contain my excitement.
Watching spring training is magical. You hear the crack of the bat for the first time after three long months of snow, sleet, and frigid cold. You smell the freshly cut grass. You feel the joy of the coming season.
Exuberant confidence fills the air. All of the Cardinals had an extra jump in their step, coaches and players alike.
Vina and Edgar Rentaria joked around in Spanish behind the batting cage. An old coach, who looked like he must have been around during the Gashouse Gang era, played pepper with Mike Matheny. Rolen took hundreds of grounders at third, fielding them all with the authority of an MVP candidate. Two young catchers warmed up down the third base line, whipping the ball back and forth. Pitchers shagged fly balls in the outfield with comical ineptitude; Matt Morris should definitely stick with pitching.
As a fan, these are the moments you learn to cherish: the small snippets that the TV analysts gloss over and the beat writers forget. They are the stories that you can pass on as an oral history of how the game used to be played. This is the strength of baseball. No one goes to NBA training camp. Few venture onto the NFL practice fields, especially when Daniel Snyder charges admission. But spring training is different.
The day I trekked to Jupiter, maybe a hundred spectators lined the railings and occupied the bleachers. Grandmothers, autograph hawkers, families, and me. I stood at the fence taking in the scene, memorizing numbers and faces all over again, chatting it up with the fan services guy.
After each player took his hacks, he filed past the low retaining fence. Some paused briefly to sign a symbolic autograph or two, others blew right past the growing horde of fans, and still others went down the line methodically signing every ball, bat, picture, jersey, or trinket thrown their way.
Every time a big-name player went by, the shouts, orders and commands reached a feverish pitch.
Grandmothers demanded, “Mr. Rolen it is for my grandson! Please! It is what he wants for his birthday.”
Autograph hawkers bellowed, “Edgar, just a couple of autographs, man! Come on dude! Por favor!”
Little kids whined, “Albert, you are my favorite player. Please Mr. Pujols!”
Middle-aged men barked, “Mike, over here! It is for my son. Sign on the sweet spot.”
And I just stood in the middle of it all, politely and calmly asking any player who came my way, “Mr. so-and-so, thank you for your time.”
Sure it was cheesy and not very effective. I did not get Rolen or Pujols or Rentaria to sign a stitched piece of cowhide, but the autographs I did nab were not forced. I do not need the autographs of every player to show that I am a fan. If a player does not want to sign, fine.
Sure, autographs are cool, but the memories of spring training are more powerful and gripping.
Anyone can buy an autograph, but not everyone can see Mike Matheny playing pepper with a 75 year-old coach.