Hudson Valley Astrologer

“People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.” –

~ Rogers Hornsby

Long before the appearance of snowdrops and morning cloaks, queen bubble bees and robins, there is another resounding call that says spring is here.

In 18 days pitchers and catchers report for spring training! It’s still January! But in this household, the annual countdown has begun.

Growing up baseball was my sport, until I fell off a bike and broke my arm. I was the lead off hitter and played first base. The coach, incredulous that I wasn’t able to play in the championship game, thought it was a good idea to see if I could still play. We didn’t know my arm was broken yet. Not sure why the swelling and discoloration didn’t give it away, but back then mom’s must have thought coaches were as good as getting a first opinion from the family doctor. I carefully put my glove on my right hand and stood on first for a practice toss. The coach zipped the ball over excitedly, and it snapped into the meat of my glove with a thhhwump! That was it! Then and there my flourishing baseball career was over! I was probably only 9 or 10, more likely 10: transiting Uranus was square Mars in my chart, and Mars rules the 5th house of sports and entertainment,♅ □ ♂.

I can still see the anguish on my coaches face but don’t really remember letting out the scream. He looked as if he just saw a ghost, more concerned about the lineup than my arm. Mom gave him that look that my siblings and I knew all too well, she could send daggers through the slits of her squinty eyes that said, “do not even think of messing with me.”

Together, they looked at my arm the way kids pretending to be doctors examine a patient, looking just long enough to think they’ve acted the part. It was unanimous! I couldn’t start that day because first I had to go to the emergency room.

When we left the ER I had a cast up to my bicep and didn’t watch or play baseball again until I tried out for the team as a junior in high school. Baseball, like mathematics, is a discipline that accrues cumulatively, in small bytes of information over long periods of time. My basketball and football buddies egged me on to try out. I’d missed a lot of development but was naturally athletic so I thought I’d go for it. Wow! I missed baseball but quickly learned what a difficult game it is to play. Nevertheless, I steadily improved enough to take the field occasionally and experienced moments of my former glory, but mostly during practice, where I hit the ball over everyone’s head for a jog around the bases. Unfortunately, during the games my eyes couldn’t seem to find the ball at the plate. The “leadoff hitter” was resigned to shagging foul balls.

Now, when baseball season starts we tune in to “our team” which is the New York Mets. They have a storied past but not as heralded as the other New York team, my childhood team, the Yankees. My conversion, which is not much different from a religious conversion, to the Mets occurred coincidentally with a happy marriage. The passionate interest in basketball and football slowly waned, which is odd because by all accounts baseball is about as “exciting” as watching golf or Olympic race walking. But for some strange reason I can sit on the couch with my wife and watch a 3 hour game multiple times a week. As long as there is a healthy supply of hot peanuts and not too much else going on. We queue up the game to watch and listen to the insufferable Mets suck in the fan base yet again, in the hopes that “this is the year.”

HVA

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