Baseball is baseball.

It’s as simple as that.

Win or lose, extra innings or blowout.  It’s the grand old game.  I think it is time for us, as Padre fans, to remember that.  We have Major League Baseball in our city.  We have a top 5 ballpark in the world.  Even when the team is scuffling, these things do not change.

Yes, the Padres stink right now.  But at some point they will get hot and win 7 of 9 or sweep the Dodgers.  And still, baseball will still be baseball: the sport that poetry would be, if it were a sport.  I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds swell.

I went to my first baseball game of the year on Sunday.  I told a buddy of mine that I wasn’t fired up about Halladay vs. LeBlanc.  And he reminded me of the obviousness of the truth “a bad day at the yard is still better than a good day at the office.”  I am confident that if I worked in an office, I’d agree.

On Sunday, I sat in a left field seat next to my first-born child; just like my dad and I did 25 years ago.  We sat there and analyzed the game together, making comments back and fourth… being wowed by the players and how far the little white ball flies at times.  We admired the green grass, how much bigger the field is than it looks in his video game and why there is a big paint can in left field.

At one point Jason Bartlett lined a single to right field and my son yelled at Halladay, “yeah, keep throwing sliders, buddy!”     My 7-year-old just heckled the defending Cy Young winner!  Seriously, does it get any better than this?  During the 9^th, the Padres rallied and I turn to my left and see my son with his hands together in front of his face and his eyes closed, muttering something. Dude, my kid is praying for a base hit!  I had flashbacks to all the 9,275 times I’ve done that at the ballyard.

And then, the Padres opened the field at Petco Park for kids to come down and play around.  My son and I went into center field and he ran into the padded wall a few times, pretending to catch a fly ball.  Then, he asked me to throw “short ones” so he could dive and get red brick all over his clothes (which his mom will love trying to wash out).  Then, we played catch.  Then we played “pickle” where he runs back and forth between his dad and his cousin, trying to get to my hat (which was 2^nd base) before I could tag him (and putting grass stains on top of his red brick stains). 

I played baseball with my 7-year-old son, on the field of a Major League ballpark for a half and hour on the green grass, beneath the blue sky.  A claim, I’d wager, less than 1 percent of the population can make.  When’s the last time you shot hoops with your kid at Staples Center?  When’s the lat time your kid ran a post route at Qualcomm Stadium?  Hmmm?    Exactly.

Fans… baseball is baseball.  It’s beautiful; it’s romantic and its simple.  It’s not about wins and losses and it’s certainly not about 142-million dollar contracts for first basemen.  At the end of the day, it is about watching skill and talent we don’t have.  It’s about green grass, white lines and a little hill with a rubber slab.  It’s about saying “wow” and holding your breath.  It’s about smiling, relaxing, stressing and caring.  It’s about baseball.  And that… is way more important than Brad Hawpe’s batting average or the Colorado Rockies record.  It’s something to enjoy, not grind your teeth over.

So, please stop making calls to sports talk shows… posting nasty comments to Facebook and sweating the small stuff.  Just let yourself enjoy what we have: big-league baseball.  Because, after all… baseball is still baseball.