In 1995, with the baseball season starting late in a year after there was no World Series, I made a vow.
I had been a baseball fan since I was 7 in the late 1950s, but I was so angry at the angst every few years as owners and players battled over more money than most of us see in a dozen lifetimes that I said if it ever happened again, I would abandon baseball forever.
Amazingly, it never did, although there is certainly the possibility it will happen this spring.
I probably won’t keep that vow. I’m not the same man at 72 than I was at 45, and I truly cannot imagine the combatants being so stupid as to prevent the season from starting on time.
But I write this because I found something interesting from my past.
April 5, 1972, was supposed to be Opening Day that year, but 1972 was the first baseball strike, although a short one.
I was 22 then, and I was writing a lot of poetry. No great poetry, but poetry.
Most of it was stuff about love and loss, but I had one short blank verse piece called “Reflections on the Baseball Strike.”
Here it is, from April 4, 1972 — half a century ago:
“Tomorrow spring should be here;
Thousands of fans should be filing
Into huge stadiums to cheer for
The heroes of summer;
Athletes, young and strong, should
Be competing on the field, running
And throwing, batting and fielding,
And striving for the pennant; providing
Vicarious thrills for those who are
Old and not so strong.
“They will not.
The stadiums will lie empty,
The emerald green of the outfield grass
Untouched by running feet; the seats
Devoid of cheering fans, and the
Elaborate scoreboards silent and dark.
For spring is late this year;
Delayed by owners, players and lawyers
Who have turned a great sport into a
Giant corporation, caring only for
Profit and loss.
Yes, the spring will be late this year,
If it arrives at all, and I am sad.”