Orioles Magic, Will it Happen?

I am an Orioles fan through and through.  I don’t think I have a choice; it’s part of my history.  My grandmother was a diehard Orioles fan.  She would make dinner while listening to the game on her radio, which she propped against the screen in an open window for the best reception.   She would read the morning paper and grumble about a trade and get in heated conversations with anyone about the strengths and weaknesses of the team.  She passed her passion onto her boys, who passed it onto their children.  When I think of summer as a child, it was marked by baseball in every way.  It was our lullaby that rocked us to sleep at night, our leisure activity, the background of most events, and theme that ran through most conversations.  My father watched the games on television with the sound muted so he could listen to the commentating on the radio.  If we were so unlucky as to have to travel during a game, the game still came with us through static filled air waves.  There would be times that the static was so loud we couldn’t hear the plays at all, but my father would shush us and listen ever so carefully, only to cheer to curse at something he heard behind the static.  Our favorite family outing during the summer was Buck Night at Memorial Stadium.  My mother filled thermoses full of fresh lemonade, wrapped hot dogs in foil, and packed our gloves. We sat in the bleachers and ate our picnic, listening to the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the call of the vendors. The air was hot and wet and smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and hot dogs.  It was the smell of the stadium, the smell of baseball, the smell of summer.  We screamed “Charge!” and danced to John Denver and wished we were the lucky soul that just heard, “Give that fan a contract!”  It was a time of the greats: Dempsey, Ripken, Murray, Bumbry, and Palmer.   Fathers watched wistfully at the Ripken clan, wishing they could be the proud father waving their son on to home in the big leagues.   We cheered when Earl Weaver gave us fireworks and we booed when we heard Jim Palmer was hurt, again.  At the end of the night we would sit in traffic for hours trying to get home.  We listened to the post-game show and recapped every amazing play. We didn’t mind. We were proud to be Orioles fans.  I miss those days.  I want to be able to pass on the Oriole pride to my children, but it’s hard to do when we have nights like the other night when we were down by nine runs at the end of the first inning.  All over Baltimore there are conversations about what has gone wrong with the Orioles.  Is it ownership or management, bullpen or bats?  Everyone has a theory.  Some have gotten so disgusted that they have put away their orange and black.  Others have stopped watching all together. Baltimore is tired and broken, mourning the loss of a team we once knew and loved.  While some think our glory days are behind us, I believe we are in a temporary slump.  Baltimore is a proud city.  We are a loyal city.  While we may say that we have given up hope, we can’t shake the Orioles.  Our blood runs orange and black and we can’t deny what is part of us, part of our history.  We are 33rd street and Camden Yards, Robinson and Roberts, and everything in between.  Deep in our bones, we remember what it was like to be great. While we may say we have given up all hope, I believe most of us are just waiting for the magic to return to Baltimore.  I just hope it happens soon; there is a whole new generation eager to  make new baseball memories.