07/03/2017 3:43 PM
Aleyn Arthur, Mayor of Qu'Appelle sent this great letter to the Red Sox management team. Mayor Al's letter also appeared in Qu'Appelle's local news paper.
There is no better live event than a baseball game. The first weekend in June, I went to the home opener for the Regina Red Sox. They play such teams as the Beavers and the Bombers, the Millionaires and the Millers. It’s a two month season.
The players range from college kids to old timers, hailing from Mississippi to Oregon, from Florida to British Columbia. They work hard to hone their craft. It’s obvious that this is no regular slo pitch match in a beer league.
A baseball game is therapeutic. Its akin to meditation. The smells. The cooking of popcorn and hot dogs drifts on the breeze. The prairie air changes its scent depending on the amount of rain. The sounds.
The way a 90 mph pitch hits the catcher's glove with a loud smack. The crack of the ball off the bat. The ump yelling out or strike. The sights. The high fence in right field. The green of the grass. The brown of the infield. The dirt coming off the catcher's mitt after a fastball. The camaraderie. Friends sitting together discussing their lives between pitches.
For those truly close friends, there is a silence that passes along between batters and even during innings. It's a shared togetherness that is different than a Pats game or a Riders game.
Those that have attended a Red Sox game know to what I am referring. Plus the beer is cheap.
Last year, I had the high honour of throwing out the first pitch at a Red Sox game. For a month, I practised in the backyard throwing a tennis ball against my fence. I paced out the distance; it really didn't seem that far. How hard can this be? Then the moment arrived. I stood on the side of the field along the first base line chatting with the local reporter. We talked of other folk who had thrown out the first pitch. He had some good stories. I laughed. I wasn't nervous in the least.
Then my time came. I strode out to the mound like a sexy Tom Henke. I took a deep breath and stared at the catcher. He held out his glove. I shook him off. He gave me the fastball sign. I shook him off. I glanced at first to check the runner. The catcher gave me the curve sign. I nodded. I assumed my tall, lean pitching stance. I was in heaven. With all my gusto, I delivered my pitch.
My dad would have proud; it was a strike right down the middle.
Of course he was English and a cricket fan. He would have been proud that my pitch had bounced once about 16 feet in front the catcher right into his glove. A perfect cricket pitch really. It's seems a privilege now that when I type “regina red”…. Into my browser. The “sox” pop up instead of the “lobster”. Go Red Sox!!