Mem’ries Sweet: Baseball Games Just Aren’t The Same These Days
Cinco de Mayo. Today is one of celebration and the mindless drinking of margaritas. But I won’t be consuming Tex-Mex or tequila today. Today has a different meaning to me. I think of today, the Fifth of May, as Cinco de John, when I raise a toast in remembrance of the dear friend I lost three years ago, to the day.
John Blume was one of my best buds. He also was my hero and the person who introduced to me the love of baseball. John taught me that baseball games were an experience that needed to be appreciated for the strategy and artistry the game creates.
I met John over a quarter of a century ago. He and his wife were the first friends my wife and I met as a couple. Over the years, his family became a part of my family. I watched his three boys grow from toddlers to fine young men. He was a lieutenant with Dallas Fire & Rescue, having served 34 years as a paramedic and firefighter for the City of Dallas. It was a job he loved that ultimately cut his life short.
The man had so many talents, so many hobbies. He was an avid bird watcher and could identify a species in seconds. You didn't need to see his certificates to know that he was a master carpenter or master gardener. His tomatoes were the best damn tomatoes I’ve ever eaten. His homemade furniture spoke for itself, and I am blessed to have a few of his pieces in my house. He was a hunter and an angler. He was a substitute teacher. He was a baseball coach. The list goes on and on as to who John Blume was away from the firehouse.
John wore many hats, figuratively and literally. One we ultimately shared was baseball. He played college ball as a catcher at Midwestern State University in Wichita Falls. Baseball always was a part of who he was. John talked about baseball a lot. I think over the years I heard every single detail of every game played at Midwestern – from what happened before the game, what the coach said in the dugout, conversations he had with the umps behind the plate, and on the bus ride back to campus. I have visual images of his teammates, though I have never met them, I still heard everything about them.
Over the course of our friendship, John and I attended dozens, if not hundreds, of baseball games. Sometimes it was with our wives or other friends, but many times it was just the two of us. We went to Rangers games, not only in Arlington but all across the country. He wanted to see all of the MLB ballparks. He was well on his way to accomplishing that feat. His wife Micki is now trying to complete that list for him.
John grew up in Hurst. He went to TCU games because it was the local college. Often he told stories about being a kid and heading to the ballpark on Sunday afternoons, just to watch the Horned Frogs, a series of travels that gave him an affinity for TCU. That affection grew when he and I became friends. He liked TCU more and more because I was so passionate about all things Frogs.
Before I met John, I liked baseball but didn't love it. When I played as a kid, I was never very good and didn't progress much beyond T-ball. While I went to baseball games in high school and college, it was more of a social event – an opportunity for a beer and a hotdog among friends. I never went to a game to study its artistry or to think about the strategy behind each pitch or at-bat.
Then I met John. He never met a stranger. Within moments of our arrival at our seats, he would know the life stories of everyone around us. John was especially great with the kids – explaining to them what they were watching, what to look for next, and so much more.
When he wasn’t talking to strangers, he was talking to me—telling me about those games at Midwestern, what the pitcher was thinking, what the catcher was signaling, and what the coach said on the mound visit. He taught me to listen to the sound of the bat, different when made of aluminum, as with college teams. He knew by the sound of the bat at impact with the ball if we would see a home run or fly-out. I would jump with excitement thinking I was about to witness a grand slam, and he would say, “Barry, sit your butt down; that ball is going right to the centerfielder.” And he’d be right. He was always right.
Baseball games became a blank canvas, and he could eloquently describe how the players would fill the picture in over the next nine or more innings. To him, every game was unique, and a new painting could be created each time.
But I listened. I absorbed all he would tell me. Some days, he’d talk so much that I’d try to ignore him. But deep down, I was taking it all in. I was at a TCU game with some other friends one day, and a foul ball was hit up in the air behind our first baseman, but it was coming down in foul territory. Three of our players went for the catch, and our second baseman caught it. My friend started saying it was a matter of luck, because the foul ball was not his to catch. I told her no, based on where that ball would land, the second baseman was the right one to catch it. She didn’t believe me and immediately said, “Is that what John would say?” I said with confidence that it was. She still gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me. So, I texted John. I laid out the exact scenario, exactly where the ball was headed. My text was very objective. I asked him whose it was to catch. His response? Well, it was so very John. “Now, Barry, we’ve talked about this. You know that it’s the second baseman’s job to catch that. It’s too far for the right fielder to run, and the first baseman is looking behind him.” I smiled and replied, “Yep. That’s exactly what I said!”
I took John to a game at Lupton on February 22, 2019. It was a Sunday afternoon, and we were playing Grand Canyon University. And you know baseball at Lupton in February. It’s either cold as hell, or a beautiful spring day. We got the latter. Gorgeous day. We sat right behind the Frogs’ dugout. The showgirls got up on the dugout and danced. John was smiling ear to ear at that. Like the rest of us, John complained about that GCU logo and how they stole that from TCU. “Cheaters,” he said, using a phrase he said a lot about the opponent at many a game. That was Porter Brown’s first freshman year. It was before his injury. And he was hot. He had two hits that day. John looked at me and said, “I hope you have made your hotel reservations for Omaha. You’re going to need them.” We didn’t. The season went south not long after that. But, for once, I didn't care. I spent those next few weeks saying farewell to my dear friend. Unfortunately, neither of us knew that game in February would be the last baseball game John would ever attend. On May 5, 2019, John passed away from lung cancer, a damned disease he got because of his career.
John's last baseball game. It was at Lupton against GCU. He loved the showgirls and went home and said "I got to watch some baseball too."
Baseball games just aren’t the same these days. I miss my buddy annoyingly telling me what to look at or telling me about when MSU traveled to Norman one year for the umpteenth time. But because of him, baseball games are a very special place to this day. I can’t wait to see what painting gets created on that canvas each time.
Thank you, John. Thanks for forever changing the way I think about America’s pastime. Thanks for those hundreds of games sitting next to me. Thanks for being you! I miss you every day. I love you, my brother.
Happy Cinco de John, everyone.
Happy Cinco de John
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