The Possibilities

I write this as pitchers and catchers begin reporting for Spring Training.  For fans of baseball, it is as much a sign of springtime as melting snow, budding florae and newborn fauna.  To quote my ol’ friend, Shaun Hynes,

The grass always smells fresher, the hotdogs taste better, and the beer colder…. And the sound of a fastball hitting a catcher’s mitt is always crisper… No matter what is going on in the world… It’s a sign of spring and all things are possible…

Some of my happiest and saddest moments were spent on a Little League baseball diamond.  There were thrilling victories and accomplishments, both personally and as a team, and there was the bitterness of defeat and humiliation; of blundering on the Saturday morning stage.  Even today, it takes but a moment for me to return to the dugout and smell the leather of my mitt as I held it up to my face.  I can still envision unwrapping a centuries-old piece of Bazooka Joe gum, quickly reading the comic, then jamming the gum into my mouth as I ran up the steps to take the field.

Even on overcast days, the sun, for me, always shined a little brighter on a baseball diamond.  Though I couldn’t articulate it then, the beginning of each game held for me boundless possibilities, unlimited potential.  In those prepubescent days, baseball was what I lived for.  I wonder if my little brain could even fathom the metaphors for life imbued within each game.

On that diamond, we struggled against adversaries and adversities.  We battled as a team and we scrapped as individuals.  Each victory or defeat was our own and it was so for our fellow teammates.  Victories were short-lived; as were mistakes and defeats.  We took a swing, ran, slid and no matter what the call by the umpire, we got up, dusted off our pants and awaited our next turn.  Some days we watched as the other team threw their gloves into the air in celebration and on other days they watched as we threw ours.

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We learned on a baseball diamond.  We learned how to hit, throw and field.  We learned that there was always another opportunity.  We learned that, win or lose, there was always another day, another game.  We learned that there was always somebody better than us.  We learned sportsmanship.

Two four six eight,
Who do we appreciate?
The other team!
The other team!
Yea!!

Looking back now, I see those games and that time in my life as a perfect metaphor for my life.

A few months ago, my girlfriend and I attended a PeeWee Football game for which my granddaughter was a cheerleader.  It was in the same town where I was raised.  Following that early morning game, I drove her past my childhood home, and then followed the street to the baseball field of my youth.  I cruised slowly past, wanting to step onto the field, but not wanting to stop because I felt a lump forming in my throat.  We drove on to fill the gas tank and drive thru for a drink and she asked me why I didn’t stop at the field.  I don’t know how she knew I was considering it, but she suggested we go back on our way out of town.

Once there, she told me she’d wait in the car if I wanted to look around.  I don’t know why I hesitated but, after a moment’s pause, I got out of the car.  The field was no longer a Little League field, but was now the center of a park.  The dugouts were gone; filled in now and over them stood chain-link-fence areas for players to sit.  Gone, also, was the concession stand with its second story announcer’s booth.

I walked through the gate to the field and immediately took up position at first base.  I kicked the ground then smoothed the dirt around my position.  Half of my brain was asking me what I was doing while the other part recalled the murmurs of the people in the stands, the sounds of ball hitting leather, the shouts of 10-year-old boys taking positions around me.   The lump in my throat grew more intense.  My adult brain struggled with questions as to why I was feeling all of this emotion while the child brain saw players coming out from the opposing dugout, each listening to last-minute instructions from their manager while gently swinging a bat past their knees.

That team wore orange and we, dark blue.  Tears began to well in my eyes and I could not fight them back.  I vividly recalled the one successful hidden ball trick we’d executed.  A pompous ass from my school named Ralphie had just walked and when he turned to toss his bat towards his dugout, our catcher threw me the ball.  I kept it in my glove and placed my glove on my knee, crouching as if I didn’t have the ball and was preparing myself for the next batter.  The trick never worked.  Following every base on balls, every catcher on every team threw the ball down to the first baseman.  Everyone knew it.  And, as every kid who stood in the first base coach’s box did, this one called out to the approaching runner, “He’s got the ball!”

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But this time Ralphie’s pomposity got the better of him and he rounded first and began dancing to entice the pitcher to throw over.  I was so surprised by this that I’m sure my eyes grew to the size of saucers, but I lunged forward and swiped Ralphie with my glove as he passed.

“Yer out!” called the ump and Ralphie turned to face him with an incredulous look on his face.  I took a step towards him and repeatedly tapped him with the ball.

“I got you, Ralphie,” I repeated with each tap.

He dropped his head, turned and trotted back to his dugout.  The opposing manager asked for time out and called the first-year first base coach over and began berating him for not telling Ralphie that I had the ball.  The little kid stood there with his mouth open, trying to explain that he had done just that.  The manager scolded for a few more moments—after all, how could Ralphie the Great have made a mistake.

I don’t know what came over me but I yelled out, “He did tell him!”  I looked to my manager who waved me off, in essence telling me to mind my own business.  To this day I don’t know if the other manager heard me, but I hope he did.

This and so many baseball memories flooded over me.  It was almost overwhelming.

I walked to the pitcher’s mound.  It was no longer an actual mound; now just a place marked with a piece of rubber.  I’d been a pitcher in my second season in Little League.  Still partly self-conscious about what my girlfriend or any other onlooker might think, I kicked away some dirt and placed my foot along the rubber.  I saw the concession stand behind home plate and the open announcer’s booth.  Two men sat therein and made notes on pieces of paper, a microphone sitting between them.  There was a catcher, an umpire and a small boy approaching the batter’s box.  I was nearly choking trying to fight back tears.  Why was there so much emotion!?  The lump in my throat was painful.

In an effort to shake it off, I walked towards the batter’s box.  Again I instinctively kicked dirt away to give myself a secure footing.   I looked to where the dugout would have been.  I saw one of my managers watching me.  To the right sat my parents in the stands.  I looked out onto the field.  Right here.  Right here I stood a half century ago.  Right here I swung and missed.  I hit.  I slid and was out and I slid and was safe.  So many times… so many years ago.

But why now, was I crying?  There were good times and bad, but no life changing events.  No one died on this field.  Just hours of trying and succeeding and trying and failing… and playing.  Yes, playing!  It was life and I was playing.  Were my tears now for all the years of promise that stood before me then?  Were they for the hopes and dreams of a boy which had long been forgotten or ignored?  Were those tears for all of the hopes and dreams I’d had but was too much of a coward to pursue?

Ultimately only I can say whether I squandered the gift of my life.  But every Spring there is baseball.  With the sun and the moon and the tide, the circle of life continues.  For me it is most represented by baseball and the sheer exhilaration with which I played the game as a youth.  Perhaps I cried that day and this for the excitement that has faded.

But every spring I hope that this new season of baseball will remind me of the joy and excitement I once held in my heart.  And it will, again, remind me that there is always another springtime, another chance to play.