My Life with Charlie Brown

The Fan: Baseball Is Life, I’m Afraid

51 The Fan: Baseball Is Life, I’m Afraid By Charlie Brown B aseball is life, I’m afraid. Well, I love baseball. I suppose I love it so much because I love standing on the mound where I can look over the whole game and field and feel I’m in control. What a beautiful feeling that is, wow! I admit, however, I don’t have much to be proud of. I have a dog at shortstop whose big fantasy is to play hockey, of all things, against Wayne Gretzky. I have this kid at second base who holds a security blanket. Then I have Lucy, who’s probably the worst right fielder in the game. The only good thing she has are excuses. She either gets clouds in her eyes, or she says, “The grass got in my eyes.” It’s gotten to the point that I’m actually looking forward to what her next excuse will be. Schroeder, of course, is my catcher. Things are so bad with my team that he doesn’t even give me signals. He knows that the other teams don’t care what I throw anyway. None of this really matters, though. It doesn’t even bother me that my team doesn’t have a name, or that we use old motel pillows for bases. The game of baseball, and me being a pitcher—those are the things that count. With me as the pitcher, and, of course, the manager , I call the shots over my life, and isn’t that what all the people 54 My LIfe want? Even though having control over my team is like having control over nothing, I still love the game—it has a beauty you don’t find in other sports. That’s why my dream has always been that someday I’d be at a major league game, and someone would hit a foul ball and I’d make this spectacular, totally incredible catch. Then the manager of the home team would come out of the dugout and say, “Sign that kid up, fast.” I was telling this to one of my friends, and you know what he said? Well, he told me, “Yeah, yeah. You and about 20 million other kids.” I’m a hero-worshipper, and there’s so much about the game that’s heroic—making diving catches in the field, leaping up against an outfield wall to make a game-saving catch, hitting a home run, or even striking out one of Peppermint Patty’s kids from across town. Too bad all those things are just fantasies of mine. My team is so bad, we don’t even have uniforms. And you know what Patty once told me? She said she could never marry anyone she could strike out in three straight pitches. I’d like to be a strikeout king myself. I’d love to have a change of pace, but as it turns out, every pitch I throw is the same. Schroeder once walked out to the mound and said, “I like that slowball you just threw.” He knows how to hurt a guy. I was throwing my fastest, fastest fastball. The other thing that makes baseball great is you have an entire team to root for, you can pick your heroes from a whole group of guys. Baseball is a game that builds heroes—and also goats. So far I’ve only been a goat. I think my best talent is avoiding those line drives that whiz by the mound. They could tear off my shoes, socks, hat, shorts, everything. The complaint is that it would take me too long to get dressed. Don’t’ get me wrong, I look forward to playing. But the baseball season is hard on me. I don’t sleep at night thinking about the next day’s game. My sister Sally even asked me once if I was superstitious 55 The Fan: Baseball Is Life, I'm Afraid like other players. I said, yes. She said, “What difference does it make? You always lose anyway.” That’s the way little sisters are. Unfortunately, in a way she’s right. All winter I got ready for the season looking at our team’s statistics—who got the hits, who drove in runs. It’s surprising how fast I...