Ping!
The sound came from the field to my left as my wife, Kristin, and I were walking through our Aurora subdivision last night.
I turned my head, thrilled to hear the unmistakable sound of an aluminum bat striking a baseball. I was happy to see three young boys out playing baseball on a night that felt like fall no matter what the calendar says.
It got me thinking that maybe watching sports isn't the best thing about my job, or what drew me to become a sports writer in the first place. Maybe it was the sounds.
Sports are symphonies.
While it was good to hear the ping of the aluminum, it's the crack produced by a mighty ash bat that really brings the goose bumps. Or the pop of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt as the enemy's cleanup batter swings and misses for strike three.
In basketball, the squeak of the sneakers on the floor brings back memories of dingy gyms, winter nights and stale popcorn. The swoosh of the leather ball against the nylon chords of the net, followed closely by the buzz of the horn sending the frenzied fans happily into the cold.
Hockey and football are known for the violence of their hits, the pads crashing into each other on third-and-short, the smashing of bodies into the corner boards as opposing players chase a loose puck.
But there is aural beauty in the scrape of skate blades across the ice. And the whistle of a perfectly thrown spiral slicing through the air.
It's the sounds.
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