I've left behind the man I used to be

I never saw Stan Musial play, I’ve only seen old newsreels and read books – stacks and stacks of old baseball books, magazines and baseball encyclopedias.

And I heard my dad talk about him.

By any measure, a giant of a ballplayer. And an even better person. My favorite statistic of his is that he was married to his wife for 72 (!) years, until she passed away last year.

Reading remembrances of Musial upon his death yesterday has taken me back to what baseball used to mean to me.

Reading box scores religiously, collecting and studying baseball cards. Watching the Yankees on WPIX-11. Weekly Sunday doubleheaders (all 5-6 hours). Suffering through the Yankees fall from grace. Rejoicing in the Yankees rise from the ashes. Playing baseball for years, from little league to adult leagues. Following pennant races, day by day, through long summers. Seeing Mickey Mantle hit two homers in one game. Going to Game One of the ’77 World Series at Yankee Stadium without tickets, bribing an usher to get in, and moving to 6th row box seats behind the Dodgers dugout. Ross Moschitto. Fritz Peterson, Oscar Gamble. Celerino Sanchez. Mickey Rivers. Dick Tidrow. Heathcliff Johnson. Sparky Lyle. Ed “Hoggy” Herrman. Grant Jackson. The Catfish. All characters and part of my past.

Since then, steroids, high salaries, and Steinbrenner, as well as family obligations, have put in dent in my loyalty to the game.

I miss it.

Of course, maybe it’s just nostalgia and yeah, maybe I am living in the past.

Sportswise, particularly baseball, the past is often a preferable place to be. But selfishly I would like to get the passion back.

I really have no team at the moment, and I need one. The Yankees ship has sadly sailed.

Pitchers and catchers report in just a few weeks. I have homework to do.

And by the way, so long to The Man – we won’t see another like him any time soon, if ever.