Treated like a king, then smacked into the heavens: Considering the American baseball

How many children have held an American baseball since it sort of coalesced into being in the latter half of the 19th century? How many have felt those nubby stitches underneath their fingers while their palms cupped the smooth white leather? How many have swung a tiny bat — wooden, then aluminum, now graphite — and connected with a softer, younger kids' baseball, a “T-ball,” and felt that unique thrill of kinetic energy and possibility?

Baseball is, in the end, all about the ball. In the pantheon of the national pastime, bat and glove — as crucial as they are — are but the supporting cast. The ball remains forever at the center. Spinning, bobbing, weaving. Pulverized, soaring, gone.

The baseball itself is a curious object. One killed a man once, Ray Chapman, in 1920. These days dozens are used in a single big-league game.

There, it emerges pristine onto a field from an umpire's waist pouch. From there, it is held meticulously and lovingly and gingerly by one player, who arranges fingers just so and treats the leather sphere like a firstborn for a few seconds. Then it is delivered to another player, an opponent with a large stick who tries mightily to smack the bejeezus out of it. You gotta feel for that little ball.

When I moved overseas in 1979, I met an elderly man who had once interviewed Ted Williams, one of the game's greatest hitters. He — the man, not Williams — knew I was feeling homesick for baseball in particular. When I produced my ball and glove, he said something to the effect of: “As long as you have a baseball, you're home.”

I still pack one most everywhere I go. For me, it is America encapsulated — burning a hole in my glove or my jacket pocket, biding its time, ready for the next big game … of catch.

Ted Anthony has written about American culture for The Associated Press since 1992. This story is part of a recurring series, “American Objects,” marking the 250 anniversary of the United States.