Upon Further Review: A sleeker column about a game of catch

It's often said that we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone, and I concur.
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth, and it involves my first love: baseball.

Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.

When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.

I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.

But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, after all) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? Not at all.

See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and other sports, and it was all he could do to interest me. Most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And many a time I did.

It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).

Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.

Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.

On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.

It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.

I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.

That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.

In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).

Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.

And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.

For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a something to ease his painful heart.

There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)

Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.

And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.

As you might imagine, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.

Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.

Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?