dandelions in left field

the ramp up to summer is ramping up

Last week I was at my son’s baseball practice. I sometimes help out with running drills or shagging stray balls at practices when I’m not on the road. I think he is now at the age where my presence in his social sphere is becoming tenuous, but I’ll take what I can while I can. I was standing in at left field for their teams’ practice scrimmage and I thought about the power of memory in regards to our senses. For those of you who haven’t played outfield, there is a particular silence out there between plays. The other players voices sound distant and one might begin to daydream if one isn’t careful. On Jack’s younger teams, it wasn’t uncommon to see an outfielder fully immersed in chasing a butterfly or having an entire conversation with himself. It’s lonely, but in the same way that turkey hunting is lonely. Lonely with anticipation. Almost a meditation. The fact that at any second a batter might loft one your way, charging all of your senses into an overdriven focus, gives the experience a tint of excitement somewhere behind the shadow of all that calm. As I stood there, hands on the knees of my jeans, I was immersed in all the innings I played as a kid. The dandelions beneath my feet, the familiar space between players, the far away slap of the pitch hitting the catcher’s mitt (almost an echo), the excitement in the split-second realization that the ball is coming my way. An outfielder is very far away from the game until the game suddenly comes to him.

Baseball has always marked the coming of summer for me. I know I am not unique in this, but as someone who doesn’t generally care about sports, I do find my romance with this one a little peculiar. The game was pretty much my religion as a kid. I knew all the teams and players and could rattle off stats from the back of baseball cards to annoying accuracy. Even now, at my advanced age, the mention of a ball player from the 80s or 90s can sometimes bring to mind a vivid image of his rookie card or his role in a memorable game. I am neither numbers driven nor meticulous, nor would I claim to have a good memory, but for some reason several of these factoids have stuck with me. As kids we have the space and time to be fully obsessed with something. When we get older and have jobs and kids of our own, so much of the day is spent getting to the next responsibility that our bandwidth almost disappears for learning such romantic verses as Kent Hrbek’s rookie year batting average or how fast Bo Jackson could throw a ball to home plate from left field (rumored to be near 109mph). This is probably an arc, as I’ve seen retirees get right back into the goo of infatuation once their calendar opens up a bit.

I think the pace of baseball lends itself to spirituality or even love. Probably in danger of becoming a relic in today’s attention-deprived modernity, baseball is slow. A lot of people find it painfully slow. The major leagues have tried to modernize a little by adding a clock which hurries the pitchers (who used to have almost unlimited time to imagine and execute their work) and a few other minor changes in hopes of quickening the pace of the game. I’ve heard sports talk radio hosts and some ticket holders cheer these decisions. I disagree with them, but then again nobody asked my opinion. Even with the recent rule changes, baseball is still, by modern standards, painfully slow. Joke’s on them, I guess. I would argue that slow is exactly what we need more of, and if there’s anyone out there who doesn’t think we could all use a little dose of slow now and again, I’d love to hear their argument. I imagine the suits at the top of baseball’s corporate ladder see the violence of football and the superstardom of basketball and drool with jealousy. Splash! Celebrity! Baseball’s ethos has always demanded humility and teamwork. It demands bunts and sacrifice flies. Its’ stars are supposed to give their team all the credit and even the grownup players making millions are expected to hustle out to their positions when it’s time to take the field. Players who jog lazily to first after hitting a fly ball are benched, and managers frequently get ejected from games in defense of their players. In fact, baseball is the only major sport in which the manager wears the same uniform as the player. All for one. A sport this large and old, of course, has its exceptions, but these generalities seem to hold up even now (generally). My only real beef with the major leagues is that the players no longer shake the other teams’ hands after the game. All through youth baseball the handshake line is law, and I think if the league is going to go through the trouble of changing the rules of a 200 year old game, they should start with that.

I was surprised when my son wanted to try baseball a couple years ago. He had never been interested in sports before and he was already ten years old. Most of the kids he started playing with had already been at it for five or six years. I admired his courage and enthusiasm and, though I know how nervous he was at that first practice (not to mention the first game), he has shown a lot of grit and willingness to learn in these last three seasons. He has become a ballplayer. When he leaves the dugout he hustles to his position. He is always willing to chatter his pitcher or holler how many outs there are and where the play should be. He has made improbable plays in the infield and has had easy rollers go right through his legs. He has beat out grounders and struck out looking. All of these appear to me as valuable lessons. As a father that has never pushed sports nor cared if my kids chose them, I am finding a lot of value in my son’s participation in this one. I’m also personally enjoying my participation in it with him. For his two first seasons I was somewhat of a secondary assistant coach. This year there are a few other parents who were excited to fill such roles so I am watching from the seats, but being around the game so often makes me feel lovey-dovey. I see my son on the bench goofing with his teammates and in the field or at bat acting more focused than I’ve seen him otherwise. I see a young man growing up. At the last game when it was his turn to take the field, he and a buddy were lost in conversation, slowly walking to their positions on the diamond. Out of habit and years of conditioning I hollered from my folding chair, “Hustle out!” He has since told me that he appreciates me coming to the games, but asks that I please not yell anything at him going forward. I told him I was once in middle school and I will keep my mouth shut.

Baseball is back, and with it comes the American summer. My kids have started counting down the pale and skinny days left of school, and Trampled is about to get very busy. We have a lot of really cool stuff to do this summer, and, as always, I’m thankful for each opportunity. In my adult years summer has become marked by a myriad of happenings, but the beginning of the baseball season is still probably the most steady. Even now, 25 years or so since I played my last competitive baseball game, I cannot step onto the dirt of an infield without flowing into a trot, and I cannot watch the entirety of Field of Dreams without shedding a tear. Bring on the green filth of summer, I am ready.

Thanks for checking in. I hope you’re doing what you want today.

-Dave