THE BASEBALL FIELD OF LIFE

I remember how the moths use to dance below the park lights. I remember the smell of the dirt and the  dust twirling in the wind.  I remember the sound of the bat hitting the ball, of everyone kidding around, celebrating the freedom from the daily grind.

I used to show up, my hand already in the glove, walking through the park gates just a bit earlier than everyone else. I liked the peacefulness and the beauty of the green field, ripe for playing.

When I was a kid, sports saved me. It gave me somewhere to go, something to excel at and increase my self esteem (which was just about zero throughout my childhood). On the field, the court, the ice, no matter the sport; I was as good if not better than anyone. Nothing and no one could bring me down.

I could hit the ball out of the park, far beyond anyone’s grasp. It didn’t matter if my sneakers were torn or if I suffered the indignities of poverty. All of that became meaningless when I played sports.

I think a baseball field is a great metaphor for life. You get up to bat, you hit the ball and make it to first base, or you strike out and make it to nowhere. Sometimes you hit it out of the park. Sometimes you make it to first and your gut tells you to steal second.

You have to focus when you are up at bat. You have to look around and see who the weak players are in the field. You have to keep the ball away from the stronger players and you have to completely avoid the pitcher.

There are guys talking smack about you, trying to distract you, to place you in a state of self doubt and  there’s your team, cheering you on, encouraging you, like a family.

You have to know how to ignore the negative remarks, the smart asses, the stuff that is being dished out just to make you think “Maybe I can’t hit this ball – maybe I’m going to strike out.”

When you do hit that ball, you have to run like hell. You have to get on as many bases as you can before the ball lands in someone’s mitt and touches you or the base. There’s no pausing, no stopping, no doubting, it’s just about running and getting to where you need to be.

I remember playing ball when I was in my 40s with guys half my age (who couldn’t hit a ball out of the park as well or as often as I did). The weight of the world would lift off my shoulders as soon as I got in my car and knew I was on my way to play a game.

I would walk the path to the park gate and if I felt the tiniest drop of rain upon my skin; I would wish it away.  No rain-out for me. I had waited all day to get to that field and to relish that spot in my soul where I felt whole, where I felt alive.

A few years ago, I returned to that same park to watch my grandson play. Everything was still in place, the shack, the bleachers, the smell of the dirt mixing with the freshly mowed grass and the dust blowing around.

It was surreal to think how much time had passed and yet, how well I could remember all the scenes that played out; the banter that me and my teammates shared – the laughs, the small talk, the knowledge and reassurance that I fit in, that I was part of something special.

The bases were perfectly in line, the white chalked lines glistening.

                                               

Someone hit a foul and the ball landed a few feet away from me. I walked over to pick it up and threw it back over the fence. I felt the warmth of the giant lamplight upon me. I gazed upward and was captivated by the moths waltzing and swaying beneath the rays, with that familiar buzzing sound in the air.

I wondered how long moths live for and if they had memories. I wondered if even one of those moths had been around when I hit it out of the park (arriving to a plethora of high fives).

Being there in the park, brought on this surge of energy (uncommon now in my 7^th decade). I wanted to be on the field. I wanted to run the bases. So I headed over to an empty Diamond #2. I stood at home plate and could hear a ghost from the past, my younger self, whisper in my ear “Run”.

I imagined myself hitting the ball. I could see it coming. I could feel my gut sensing the exact slice of a second when it would come into contact with the bat.

Then I took off running the bases. It was tough, my muscles were burning, my breath laboured, my knees trembling. I made it to first. I made it to second and by the time I got to third; I was ready to call it quits.

But I am no quitter, so I dug deep, pressed forward and I made it all the way home.

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