Reliving Glory
So I started thinking about the lives we lead, and as I could feel the tears come to my eyes, I realized that I once had a moment that was similar.
I was 11 or 12. I can't remember the year exactly, but the moment itself is permanently etched into my synapses. I was playing baseball during the summer in the town league. It was my 2nd year with this team, after a miserable previous year under a coach that was as clueless as he was unfair. So my view of baseball had been shaded. (One of the few times that's it's happened in my life.)
We had been blessed by the league & by the many irritated parents to get a coach that still influences me & who I am. As well as how I play ball. He was a renowned high school varsity coach that had moved from another city, and his coaching was far better than any of us could have hoped for. I can still hear his exclamations of, "Garsh, darn it!"
Anyhow, per my usual (at that age), I had struggled a bit with my batting skills. I'd get into a bit of a "slump", and then overthink every time at bat. Thus, making my slump worse. And no matter how much my father attempted to get me out of my funk, it never helped. (I understand why a lot more now, and my skills have vastly improved.)
Anyhow, I can remember the harshness of the later afternoon weekend game. The smell of the cut grass that almost seems like it's starting to singe from the heat. The mingling scent of sweat with MY uniform after being in the humidity for almost 2 hours. The almost electric feel of the air, touched with the intoxication smell of glove leather.
It had been a tough game. We fought, and we fought hard. It was against a team that had won last time, and we wanted to right the wrong. Our 6-inning game had come down to our last at bat. The score 6-5. Yes, I believe there were 2 outs, although part of me thinks there was only 1. And as cliché as it may sound, the bases were loaded. For most ball players, this is the dream...
...and I'm up.
I can't remember every emotion in my head from that day, but I know a lot of it was, "Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck!" I was afraid that I'd fail. Hopeful that I'd at least move a runner. Wishful that some God, any God, would just let me walk, saving my dignity for another day.
I remember getting into the box. "Digging in" as I was inclined to do at that age. Hefting the weight of the bat, which for all intents & purposes could have been an iron girder. But hold it aloft I did, with tremulous hands.
And if there was ever a point in my baseball experience that time stood still, it seemed to be that moment. I've had a few afterwards, but up 'til then... never.
I waited for the pitcher, and his motion. I can almost imagine my labored breathing in the heavy, humid air. Forgotten within my task. Buried in my fears.
When the first pitch came in, it seemed to float, or dance on the air. But the Gods heard my silent prayer, pushing it into that little vortex of nirvana, commonly referred to as the "grapefruit zone". The best way to describe it to those that don't play ball religiously, is like hitting a wiffle ball with that comical plastic bat in your fledging childhood years.
In my minds eye, I can count the stitches on the ball, slowly trace the rotation, and point to the exact spot in which I connected. My being took all of my teaching up to that point, and focused it on one moment in time. My step was precise, my arms synchronized, my eyes never wavering from the ball. I even remember that I was looking down when I connected. No turned head, hoping to see the ball leave. Instead it was attached to the focal-space of impact. I don't even remember seeing the ball leave, or exactly which direction it left. It was a perfect swing.
I remember having to struggle to bring the bat around to my other shoulder where long-time practice would dislodge it from my tightened grasp. It was like that iron, turned feather, had rematerialized as lead.
And as I scampered to first base, I performed a common act of heresy. I turned my head to look where I hit the ball. Afraid that I'd see the ball effortlessly sail into the outfielder's glove...
(I'm sure you're expecting to hear the ever clichéd phrase "home run". But you have to understand, I've never been a power hitter. I was a contact hitter. Destined for an upper-lineup role with a keen eye for the strike zone. And fast enough to attempt a stolen base.)
..., yet I was rewarded (thank you benevolent Gods of baseball) to see a baseball, my baseball, glide over the left fielder's head, watching the numbers on the back of his jersey bounce in frenetic pursuit.
As I coasted into second base, and my head started to clear from the pounding rush of excitement at gettind a double... dawn awakened behind my eyes.
I looked down, and confirmed I was standing on second base.
Second base.
I'm on second base.
I'm on second base!
I glanced at the scoreboard, and confirmed that we were a run down.
I'm on second base.
Loaded bases preceeded me.
Now partially empty.
Two runners just scored.
And we were the home team.
For once & maybe the only time in my life I leaped. I'd like to think like a gazelle, but probably more like a crazed lunatic. I continued to leap on a lazy path towards third base. My teammate on third started waving me back towards second, afraid of impending doom in the hands of our opponents. And then I saw dawn erupt in his eyes as well.
Before I knew it, I was surrounded. Crushed. Beaten even. But pain & humiliation were not my friends.
I was receiving adulation that I'm gifted to have experienced at least once. I was a "hero". I was a game winner.
------------------------------------
As I related this story to you, I fought back tears several times. Not because I miss that, but because I feel truly blessed to have enjoyed that... at least once. And if you couldn't tell, my life since the rough age of six has been surrounded by baseball, but not in the expected fashion.
I've never filled my brain with statistics & numbers. Names & factoids. Hell, to this day, I still have to scratch my head & try to remember where the Diamondbacks are in the division.
No, my immersion in ball is the true glory & freedom that I feel while on those hallowed grounds, marked out by a chain-link fence, green grass, redish clay-encrusted dirt, and white, crisp lines of...
Right & wrong.
Fair & foul.
Ball & strike.
Safe & out.
Thank you for reliving this with me, and sharing one of my moments of glory.
Comments