In some ways, my quarantine began on March 6, before I knew any better.
It began for real on March 12, after my last broadcast.
Yes, I've had to go out quite a bit, so it hasn't been a "real" quarantine. But, I've had enough of this rat race.
So, as "co-conspirator" John Nash did, I'm going away. Virtually.
John wrote a fantastic series of posts where he flew to San Francisco with a famous friend and visited Alcatraz on a special tour. To be honest, save for "virtual" in the title, it was (almost) plausible.
I often find myself about thinking about traveling. I want to go back to London (and, truth be told, I am scheduled to later this year) and Edinburgh, and see more of San Francisco, and Florida (always, especially Tampa Bay) and New Orleans and North Carolina and Richmond and Maine and finally see Seattle and Vancouver and...
But, sometimes, it can be as simple as a little over three hours away in the car.
Yup, I'm gone. Off to a place that is both real and mythical because, in theory, it shouldn't have become what it is.
I'm going to sit in the stands at Doubleday Field in Cooperstown, NY. The Mills Commission said this was the birthplace of baseball and that was very much exposed as a fraud years later. They were desperate to make baseball "the All-American game" as opposed to what it really is: a game that was concocted from Europe and brought to the United States.
It became all-American but was not solely created here.
Anyway, I'm using my TARDIS to help me get there. Just to transport me to, say, 1939.
I'll be in the stands, on a platform behind home plate. I've grabbed my overcoat and a fedora, with a press pass, of course.
And I've been placed in front of an NBC Radio microphone. I think Columbia and Mutual are both here as well, bless their hearts.
In front of me, on grass so green that I want to throw out a blanket with a picnic basket are great ballplayers past and present. They're going to play a game and I'm going to paint the word picture.
But, before the game, here comes George. Or, as you call him, "Babe." We'll have a little chat about those days with the Yankees and if his records will ever be broken. He's smarter than people realize. That's all I'll say. I bet this guy could hit 800 homers in any era against any competition.
We'd love to have his old pal The Iron Horse here. Lou Gehrig isn't well unfortunately. They call it amyotrophic something or other. I'll just describe it as Lou Gehrig's disease. Sadly.
There's Ty Cobb and Honus Wagner and Walter Johnson, "The Big Train" himself. Jeez, if only Matty had lived long enough. Finest gentleman the game has seen. Christy Mathewson. Shame what that mustard gas did.
Such a fine collection of those in uniform.
There are great smells in the air of this picturesque village, with the ballpark just a long fly ball behind a row of stores on Main Street.
"The boys will play a game today," I say to the millions huddled near their Philcos and Crosleys.
It's just perfect here in the middle of New York, despite the raging of war across the Atlantic.
Here, it's just balls, strikes, outs. I hope The Babe can wallop one! Boy, the fans will get a roar out of that! Of course, George is 44 now, so who knows what is left in that swing of his.
All of that is, in fact, immaterial. He could strike out three times. It's just a beautiful day (the overcoat isn't really necessary, but felt period-perfect) with full stands and laughter in the air. It's pure joy.
Something that I'm not sure exists elsewhere.
In truth, the greats of the game could leave. Bring on school kids. Heck, make it two teams from Norwalk, CT! Brien McMahon and Norwalk High! Let them play here. I'll broadcast THAT!
It could happen. Couldn't it? Maybe in 76 years or so?
Maybe we could even find the full broadcast again one day, as opposed to just a highlight reel.
Oh well.
No matter. For now, the sun is shining. The breeze is blowing out to right. The crowd is buzzing. There's joy in the air.
It's my own utopia.
I don't care if I never get back.
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