Balls

The boys of summer are back.

If all goes well, Major League Baseball returns next week with a shortened 60-game season. It won’t be the standard 162 games. It won’t go from early spring to late fall.

Instead, it will last just a little over three months, beginning July 23 and running through Sept. 27, with playoffs in October.

Don’t you wish presidential campaigns were that long?

The timing of this baseball season start isn’t lost on me. It makes me think of the anniversary of my first open-heart surgery – July 24, 2001 – to remove a benign cardiac tumor the size of a tennis ball. Nineteen years later, I’m still celebrating.

Honestly, I’m surprised neither one of my heart surgeons noticed anything else amiss while they fiddled with my achy breaky heart. Like maybe a mound of white cowhide sewn together with 108 double stitches of waxed red thread over a cork center wrapped in wool yarn.

I love baseball. The traditions, the strategy, the peanuts. Unlike some haters, I don’t agree that it’s about as exciting as watching paint dry.

Where I’m from, Opening Day is practically a national holiday, and a legitimate reason to play hooky from work, school or both. This is accepted even if your team stinks and has occupied the basement in the MLB’s Central Division two of the past four seasons.

I am, of course, speaking of my beloved Detroit Tigers.

I’ve been a fan since I was a kid growing up on Detroit’s east side, playing ball against the neighborhood boys on a dirt playground with a wood-splintered backstop. As a tomboy with quite an arm and a mean curve ball, I once stopped Frankie Anderson’s line drive with my right temple.

There’s still an indentation. Explains a lot, doesn’t it Rebecca?

That unexpected comebacker ended my pitching career, as my parents exiled me to play outfield for the rest of my life with a permanent socially-distant view of everyone else’s backsides.

My pal Georgie Grobar was so sure I was dead in what became known as “The JJ Incident” that he hid under his bed for weeks, which in itself was tragic since his mom always served the best snacks. Mrs. Grobar sent me a birthday card every April 11 for my whole life until she passed in 2007. I still miss those handwritten notes.

Apparently, Georgie conquered his fears, grew some major “cojones” and became top executive for a multimillion-dollar corporation known for a mouse with white gloves and red shorts. Revenge is sweet.

Speaking of balls, this COVID-19 pandemic has been awfully sneaky over the past several months keeping everybody home and ending all TV sports – at the same time. Some nerve. Sports fans are hungry, even for baseball.

Welcome to Baseball 2020: No applause. No hecklers from behind home plate or drunken sots yelling obscenities from left field. It still feels like America’s pastime, but it sounds more like a golf tournament.

Teams will play 40 games against rival opponents from their own division and then 20 more interleague games. Naturally, the New York “Stankees” kick it off July 23 against the defending champion Washington Nationals. Later that night, the San Francisco Giants play the Los Angeles Dodgers on the West Coast. The rest of the league plays on July 24, including my Tigers, who open a three-game road series against the Cincinnati Reds (new team of ex-Tiger Nicholas Castellanos).

Our Comerica Park home opener is July 27 against Kansas City. The Tigers’ season also wraps up against the Royals with a four-game road series, ending Sept. 27.

Frankly, I’m wondering how pandemic baseball is going to work with a multitude of health and safety protocols, off-field rules and travel regulations. Plus, the league reserves the right to make changes anytime as unforeseen obstacles emerge. Imagine that. Some thoughts:

Masks: No masks are required in dugouts, bullpens or on the field. But I’m trying to envision an irate masked manager arguing a questionable call with an umpire wearing a plastic face shield and mask over his usual protective equipment. “What did you say? These pants make my butt look big?”

Social distancing: Sure, but not always. Locker rooms will require 6 feet of separation. No hugs, high-fives, fist bumps, choreographed secret handshakes or butt taps. No piling on at home plate after a walk-off HR.

Mound visits: You know those. When catchers, infielders and coaches huddle up with the pitcher using baseball gloves to cover their mouths so opponents can’t hear strategic conversations such as, “Jeez, these boxer shorts are tight” and “How’s that new baby, Jimbo?”

Bodily fluids: Oh, and you know how gross baseball can be with all that spitting and spewing, wiping and sweating, and disgusting snot rockets they blow out of their noses? Well, as Sen. Elizabeth Warren says, we have a plan for that. Pitchers will be required to keep a “wet rag” in their back pocket. For instant faux saliva, they touch the rag and then wipe the ball. But not necessarily in that order. Double ick.

Balls: I have saved the best rule for last. Anytime a baseball is touched by more than one player, a new ball must be used. What? Example: Batter hits a routine groundout to shortstop, and he makes a throw to first? New ball. Pitcher gets the new ball, wipes it with his “wet rag” and then dries off his pitching hand on dirty, sweaty pants before stepping back onto the mound to face the next batter. OMG. Can you imagine how many balls they’ll use during games? I’m buying stock in cows and waxed red thread.

There’s more, but I’d better stop before my dented head explodes. Play ball!