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Next week is the All-Star Game for Major League Baseball and I could care less. Now if this was the 1960’s, the day of that contest would have been circled on my calendar and treated like the summer holiday it was. In a day before smart phones, cable and technology overload, baseball fans depended on regular issues of The Sporting News and NBC’s Saturday Game of the Week to know what was going on across both the National and American Leagues. As a Mets Fan growing up in New Jersey, I looked forward to learning about other shining stars playing in distant cities that I could only dream about visiting someday. I studied the stats like I should have been doing my homework but if it came to questions about our National Past Time, I knew I’d score 100% every time. I knew about the history of Babe Ruth who I thought was actually buried under one of those monuments out at Yankee Stadium and that he truly constructed the place himself brick by brick. After watching the Lou Gehrig Movie, Pride of the Yankees, I believed that after Lou gave his speech; he walked off and died that very day. I was a kid in a more innocent time than today.

Little League was a reason to exist for me. I remember we used wooden bats back then and my baby was a thick handle Harmon Killebrew special. I literally slept with my uniform on before big games, and they were an uncomfortable wool, so comfort was forsaken for loyalty. The beauty of these childhood years was that we didn’t just play baseball when adults organized it. We ate, drank, breathed the game and whenever there was enough daylight, we would be in someone’s yard competing in the only way we knew how. There were fights and disagreements and a few black eyes and unwelcome bruises, but we learned how to get along. And I grew up in a neighborhood that was already multiracial and honestly, I could care less what color you were as long as you could throw and hit. I cringe today when I see adults interfering with kids just trying to work it out. Guys didn’t need to hug after every slug. We could be at each other’s throats one minute and standing up to battle to the death for that same person ten minutes later. I think we are seeing the fruit of raising a generation that has too much supervision in the inability for many children today knowing how to deal with difficult circumstances. If everybody always got along then there would be a large amount of those present not participating in the festivities.

I learned how to be a switch hitter because we played at so many yards with unique configurations. Short right field, I’d bat lefty. An inviting fence in left field and I’d bat righty. My brother learned the same way. Before you pay some so-called hitting coach big money to turn your son or daughter into Shohei Ohtani, give me a call and I’ll help them for free. We were good because we played even when nobody made us. We threw hundreds of pitches during the day before we ever got to the organized game that night. I never witnessed anyone’s arm falling off. Baseball today has become a business. Do you know that my dad paid me 25 cents a week to work with him and I immediately would spend it for 5 packs of baseball cards. Do you now how much they are nowadays? We would stuff all that cardboard gum into our mouths as our version of chewing tobacco. And I remember the anticipation I would feel about opening each and every fresh pack of those little treasures. While I was always hoping for Tom Seaver, Bob Gibson, Willie Mays or Roberto Clemente, it seems that I always got plenty of Kevin Collins cards. Who is Kevin Collins? Exactly! Kevin would be the card that was clothes-pinned to my bike spokes or used as trade bait to steal a prime player from someone who was a novice. My Dad used to tell me horror stories of his Mom throwing out his baseball cards when he left the house and so you can be sure I never let my Mother near mine. I still have them today and even though my wife encourages me to part with them, they are not for sale! Maybe I’d consider dealing a Kevin Collins card or two.

The two All-Star Games I remember best were the 1964 and 1968 battles. Shea Stadium hosted the first one at their new ballpark with the World’s Fair right across the street. I begged my Dad to take me but he kept mentioning the fact that he was no John Rockefeller so that never materialized. Our Mets second baseman Ron Hunt was the starter for the NL and the win was dramatically captured when Phillies outfielder Johnny Callison hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth. It was not called, “A Walk Off,” yet but we all cheered just the same.

The other All-Star Game had me in fits because my Mom made us go out to visit family on the night of the game. I was beside myself and was never without my trusted transistor radio the whole evening. It was 1968 and Willie Mays led off for the National League in the bottom of the first at the very first All-Star Game held at the Houston Astrodome. The final score was 1-0! Willie scored that run in the opening frame. Willie also played the entire game. Both Seaver and Koosman pitched in that classic with Jerry Grote the Mets catcher behind the dish. I was so proud that the Mets had contributed so heavily in the victory. It was only the appetizer of what awaited me in 1969.

I took my brother to the 2013 All-Star Game when it was at Citi Field. I could hear Dad whisper from Heaven, “What are you Rockefeller?” We had a great time together but we both knew that the innocence was long gone and the game we grew up with a distant memory. It was the last public appearance of my Hero Tom Seaver and as I drove home that night, I knew I could not ever go back. With tears in my eyes, I said a prayer of “Thanks,” grateful to have been raised in the time I was. Money ruined the game. Business hijacked the romance. Greed took over privilege. And today baseball is slowly disappearing from the landscapes of towns all over our country. Nobody needs 100 million dollars! You can only drive one car at a time and sleep in one bed at night.

Did you know that Babe Ruth didn’t just play every inning of every game for the Yankees, but he also participated in every exhibition game that was played just so people could get a glimpse of the Sultan of Swat? Babe knocked himself unconscious in one game but still got up and finished the rest of it because he knew what he meant to the people. Babe never forgot where he came from and didn’t want to treat kids in the manner that he was mistreated. Babe Ruth was the greatest ever. Did you know that the Yankees wouldn’t let him train after a certain time because they didn’t want him to injure himself and they lose revenue. Babe loved the game, and he loved the fans that he played before. There are days that I challenge myself to never forget the privilege I have to do what I love before people that I really care about. When I think about the years my grandfather was cooped up in a coal mine, I have no room to complain.

The beauty of baseball is all about coming home. Nobody cares that you got 9 triples but never crossed the plate. I am so irritated these days about the number of hitters who don’t make contact. With a runner on 3^rd base and less than two outs, just put the ball in play and something good can happen; and yet we witness, strike one, strike two and strike three. I loved getting my hits back when I played but I also hated losing. I was a good sport and went down the line saying, “Good Game,” to the opposing team but don’t give me any of this moral victory stuff. I think too many people have forgotten that God didn’t put on this planet just to take up space or worse yet, sit the bench! This is our time and our season to run with the heart of a child and dash for home like we were Jackie Robinson in the World Series. Take me out to the way of the old ballgame. The last pitch hasn’t been tossed yet!