Game 7 reminds me why I love baseball

When I was little all I ever wanted to be was a professional baseball player. I would practice fielding grounders by throwing a tennis ball against the front steps and I would practice making diving catches in the yard with my brothers. The floor in my room was covered with baseball cards and I spent many hours working on my signature for when it became time for me to sign autographs. I even used to sit on the toilet or in the bathtub for a couple hours each day and study baseball statistics in The World Almanac and in the Official Baseball Handbook. A lot has changed since the mid to early 90s. We moved out of my old neighborhood in eighth grade, and since then I haven't had a stoop to practice fielding on. I quit baseball in ninth grade after my coach wouldn't let me play with an earring. The floor in my room is littered with dirty clothes, papers, food and beer cans instead of baseball cards. And, now I only study baseball on the toilet two times per week. But, the biggest baseball-related change that I have undergone is the fact that I don't care about it nearly as much as I used to when I was growing up.

Ever since the baseball strike of 1994, I have been a fan but never as devoted as I had been. I guess you could say that after the strike I lost my baseball innocence. I learned that there was more to baseball than hitting, pitching and fielding. That strike was the first time I realized that baseball was a business, and ever since my feelings for the sport have never been the same.

However, Game 7 of the World Series _ the only playoff game that I watched in its entirety _ took me back to that time when baseball meant everything. For the first time in a long time, baseball felt right.

After Darren Erstad squeezed Kenny Lofton's fly ball to center, with two runners on in the top of the ninth to clinch the World Series for the Anaheim Angels, he tapped gloves with left fielder Garret Anderson and the pair sprinted for the pitchers mound to join their teammates in celebration. While, it may be that in this modern baseball world the duo were sprinting in to pick up their cell phones and call their agents to renegotiate their contracts, it seemed to me that they were actually hell-bent on jumping in the middle of the celebration.

A cynic might say, however, that the only reason Dusty Baker allowed his three-year-old son, Darren into the dugout was too add to his marketability as he heads into the free agent market. Just imagine how much a three-time Manager of the Year award winner, who has a good rapport with his players, who is coming off a World Series appearance, and who seems to be wholesome family man, could command on the open market.

Though after watching Dusty Baker comfort his teary eyed three-year old son in the dugout in the aftermath of the Giants' 4-1 loss, and then conduct a post game interview with Darren in his arms, I told the cynic inside me to shut up. Baker is the real deal and his son clearly meant more to him than winning or losing.

After watching JT Snow's take-out slide to the breakup up a potential double play after Tom Goodwin's grounder to second base in the sixth inning, I couldn't help but wonder if old JT had just tripped and stumbled into David Eckstein. Seriously, does anybody even care enough to break up the double play any more.

A few minutes subsequent to the play, I finally admitted to myself that there was no way that Snow had simply tripped and stumbled at the exact moment necessary to take out the Angels' SS and break up the double play. As hard as it might be to believe in this day in age, it actually appeared that Snow realized that had he not prevented the double play, his team would have been one out closer to losing the World Series.

Even more amazing is that Snow may have been more interested in winning the World Series than in getting an earlier start on an off season trip to Hawaii

. Following the slide, Snow didn't even whip out a pen and try to autograph the base. Instead, he put his head down and hustled back to the dugout.

Hell, even Mr. Showboat himself _ Barry Bonds was caught beating out an infield hit in Game 7. And, after a close inspection of his contract, it was determined that there was no bonus clause that paid him an additional sum for running hard to first base in a World Series game. Though, his agent will undoubtedly ask that the infield hit in World Series bonus clause be added for next season.

Perhaps, the best play of the day was Erstad's full extension catch of a David Bell line drive. The Angels' speedy centerfielder raced in from deep center and belly-flopped to make the grab. Again the cynic in me reared his ugly little head. Did the recently divorced Erstad dive in order to impress a cute lady in the stands or did he really need to throw himself on the ground to make the catch?

About six replays later it became clear to me that, had Erstad decided not to dive, the ball may have scooted past him, hit the outfield wall and completely altered the momentum of the game. So while Erstad may have gotten a few phone numbers from some cute girls following the game _ that was not the reason he chose to dive.

The exuberance of Erstad and Anderson, the class of Dusty Baker, the hustle of JT Snow and Barry Bonds, and the all out recklessness off Erstad are just a few highlights from Game 7 that made me remember why I love baseball.

At least on this one evening, players were playing the way they probably played growing up _ pre-multi-million dollar contract. They played with a fire and a passion that only ten-year-old kids have.

To adapt a quote by Joe Jackson from W.P. Kinsella's novel, Shoeless Joe Jackson, for one evening at least, it seemed like "[the players] loved the game. [They'd] have played for food money. [They'd] have played for free and worked for food. It was the game, the park, the smells, the sounds... And it was the crowd, the excitement of them rising as one when the ball was hit deep. The sound was like a chorus." And, it was a beautiful thing to watch.