By Brian G. Schommer

We all have our different “happy places” and mine is at a ballpark. There is something about sitting in the bleachers, soaking in the sun and watching a couple innings of America’s pastime. The sounds and smells at a ballpark for me are just hard to beat. The passion I have for the game stems back to my early childhood. My mom was a huge baseball fan and I can still smell the popcorn she would make on the stove in our “special popcorn pot.” She would melt Crisco, add a quarter cup of popcorn and boom; the best popcorn ever. Add a can of Shasta pop and grab a seat on the couch to watch the Twins together.

My dad and his six brothers all played a lot of ball in their day and there are many stories passed down about how good they all were. Some of the stories most likely have been embellished, but a lot of them were told by people other than my uncles, so there is some credibility. While baseball is in my blood from my dad’s side, I get my passion for the game from mom. Dad died a few months before my 4th birthday from a massive heart attack at 46 years of age. That is when Mom took the driver’s seat of the baseball bus.

Mom would often say, “baseball is not a game, it’s a disease” and she didn’t say it in a negative way. Growing up, I did not have the physical gifts or stature of an athlete. I had to work hard to be average, and in most cases, average was a bit of a stretch. Mom encouraged me to keep working on getting better by playing ball as often as I could. There was no “traveling baseball” outside of VFW and Legion ball back then, although we did travel a few times for Babe Ruth Baseball with the longest trek being to Vermillion. There were no specialized camps, training facilities and weekend showcases in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. We had ‘pick up’ games at numerous local parks or parking lots, playing hot box with friends in the yard and whiffle ball in addition to the City sponsored “in-house only” program. If I was going somewhere to play ball, mom never said no.

As I crept towards the chronological double digits, my love of the game increased to the disease level that mom talked about. It was an addiction; a passion and it was evident that the baseball bug had bitten me hard. Every chance I got to go to a Hampton Cardinals game (my cousin Greg played for them), I was there. At age 9 or 10, I got to be a batboy and learned a lot about the game from guys like the Doffing brothers, Gary Hamilton, Doc Erickson and my in-house coach Don Groth. If I wasn’t in the dugout, I was chasing foul balls for a dime and spending it on popcorn.

Mom took over playing catch after dad died as well. As I grew older, my arm became too much for her and the school across the street became my new partner. Many baseballs were turned egg-shaped over the next few summers. A brick wall will do that to a yarn covered, cork centered ball wrapped in cowhide. While we no longer played catch, Mom and I continued to watch Twins games together and questioned a lot of managerial decisions in the meantime.

1982 marked the summer of my Sophomore year in High School and the inaugural season of the Hastings Hawks. I still remember their first game at Schaffer Field at the middle school… they played Hampton. My Uncle Bob was one of the founders and manager for the Hawks. Baseball had become an integral part of my existence. For just over 33 years, I was involved in just about every aspect of the Hawks organization. From PA announcer, scoreboard operator, reporter covering the team, board member including president, fundraiser, cheerleader, dugout dweller… baseball had become a full out “disease.” While usually quite satisfying, it became obvious that if I wanted to continue my love for the game, I had to step away a bit. It has been nearly five years since I have been officially a part of any of local baseball organization and I am happy to say that my passion has not gone away. A ballpark is still my happy place and probably always will be. When mom passed away in May of 2015, our family decided to dedicate a park bench in our parent’s memory. A location along the walking path by Veterans Park; the baseball field at the Veterans Athletic Complex was an obvious choice. A lot of baseball games happen at that field at all levels and when I am there, I feel much closer to my parents knowing the bench is there. When I need a bit of encouragement to keep getting better at life, I go sit on that bench… it works wonders.

Two recent experiences at ballparks helped me realize the correlations for me with baseball and life. I saw a kid chasing foul balls at John Burch Park in Cannon Falls wearing a shirt that said, “Baseball Is Life.” The analogy between life and baseball is strong. Every pitch has an undetermined outcome, just like every decision we make. We often do the best we can and still end up striking out from time to time. That “at-bat” is over and while letting it go is difficult; you need to take a different approach next time and try for a better outcome. When we take our eye off the ball, errors happen. We are only human… again, it is difficult to let it go when we boot one across the infield… dust yourself off and get back into the game. The other experience hit my heart a bit harder. My son Brett is autistic and struggles with certain social cues and adaptations. One of our shared loves is baseball and specifically, the St. Paul Saints. As we settled into our new “physical distanced” seats for the Saints first game at home, he looked at me and said, “I am just so happy to be at a ballgame this season.” I smiled, “It’s not a ballgame buddy, it’s a disease.” Laughing, he said, “yes, it is.” Thanks Mom. Get out and enjoy the great outdoors… at a ballpark near you!!