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Go Squirrels!
Wayne
Grass so green, it's "as green as grass".
Mid-day temperatures simuate mid-August.
Boys, young and old, working hard at play.
Old hall of famers riding carts, watching....remembering.
Not one aluminum bat seen or heard.
But horsehide popping sharply into cowhide,
and exploding solidly off wood, is a constant companion.
Diamonds on every corner...players, too many.
Coaches instructing...
In the cages, in the pens, on the bases,
before practice, during practice, after practice,
before, during and after the make believe games.
More chalk than you'd expect to find in the classrooms of a 1950's era college.
Precise, straight lines everywhere, in all directions, broken occasionaly by a perfect circle.
Concrete, enough to cover the streets of a small city, leading a never ending procession
from field to field.
Shades of green all over.
yelow-green trees,
turquoise-green tarps,
emerald-green evergreens,
Oakland A's green jerseys,
John Deere-green gators.
Clean...
uniforms, club houses, concrete, groundskeepers' tools, grass....
even the dirt is clean.
...."So what is it about baseball that plays so well to life's veterans?"
It must be one of the ways God compensates for old age - this game called baseball.
It must be, because I've seen a lot of old devoted fans, some lifelong admirers of the game, others recent converts to the "National Pastime".
My elderly aunt seemed to transfer her love for cows to the Atlanta braves when she could no longer walk the fields of her farm. As a teenager I walked the fields often with her and my uncle, accounting for each head before we would consider the day's chores complete. No neck chains with dangling numbers or identifying ear tags for these "girls"! All of the cows had names given to them by Aunt Toni and she could recognize each of them from a distance.
There was "Gentle" who ironically, but accidentally, goaded my aunt while shaking corn fodder from her sharp curved horns - the resulting injury severe enough for a hospital stay. And there was "Butter Cup" the smaller of two milk cows among the otherwise beef herd.
On my last visit before her death, I found my aunt before the TV watching the Braves. Our conversation was often interrupted by her commentary on the game. She spoke of "Smoltzy" and "Chipper" as fondly as she had of "Gentle" and "Butter Cup". She knew all of the players by name and, I'm sure, accounted for each of them, even the role players, before the game was complete.
I know others, as well, whose interest and enjoyment of the game grows as life progresses. So, what is it about baseball that plays so well to life's veterans?
Maybe it reminds us of our youth -
of days when we played,
or days at the ball park with grandparents,
or playing "catch" with dad.
Maybe it's the exaggerated
sights, sounds, and smells
that's easy on somewhat subdued senses.
Maybe it's the season -
beginning with the rebirth of Spring,
settling into the warmth of Summer,
and concluding in the gracefulness of Fall.
Maybe it's the rhythm, predominately of rest -
allowing reflection,
allowing contemplation,
allowing conversation.
Maybe it's the art -
the "dance" of a double play,
bright home whites on a dark green canvas,
the Anthem on the organ.
Maybe it's the opportunity for mental challenge -
"Fast ball or change-up, or even the splitter,
inside or outside or right down the middle?"
"Bunt, pitch out, throw over, hit and run,
wheel play or straight away, what should be done?"
Or...
Maybe it's the no-hurry pace, the absence of a time keeper...
Or the chance for "extra innings".
No casual spectator, this fan.
Don't interrupt her with your platitudes of "pastoral pastime"
Bring her no peanuts and crackerjacks!
She has no use for your rah-rah props.
Give her space...let her be!
There will be time for chit-chat and kit-kats when the waiting time comes.
Now there must be focus, concentrated intensity.
This game is big, this moment decisive!
Broken bats - nailed, then taped.
Hand-me-down catching gear - old, smelly and broken...much too big.
Daddy's lime intended for outhouse duty - proudly marking first and third.
Shingles for bases.
Books and boxtops for bases.
Old cow "patties" for bases...fortunately hard and dry.
Pieces of plywood, or even a tree...
"The big rock is second and the flowers are at third".
A bare spot marks home.
Dog-skin-loose, brown rawhide baseballs.
Almost black, almost petrified, sun dried baseballs.
Split at the seams, grass stained baseballs.
Water logged, cannon ball heavy, baseballs.
Road scuffed baseballs.
Rare, pearl white, smooth, tight and true, "official league" brand new baseballs...
very rare, extremely rare.
I put down the book to write.
Inspired by the pros, this amateur reads only a page or two.
Why Should I be content to be mere spectator?
I love this game as much, if not more, than they.
It's not the profession, it's the subject that propels my pen.
If only I could paint my feelings...
If only I could sculpt my passion...
If I could adequately convey my love for this game with pen and ink, this Hendrix would be a Hemingway!
I turn off the TV to play.
Inspired by the pros, this amateur watches only an inning or two.
Why shoud I be content to be mere spectator?
I love this game as much, if not more, than they.
There are fieds a'plenty just out my door and players in reserve.
Surely someone has a ball not lost, a bat not broken.
My faded Rawlings glove finds it's familiar place on the handlebar of my bike.
Talk to the old men, Dizzy Dean...expain the play, Pee Wee Reese.
Play on Mantle and Maris!
You've all done your job well....you've reminded me of what Saturdays and sun are for!
Come with me to the green fields of my mind.
These are not just any fields, and this is not just ordinary green.
These fields are the well-kept mistresses of the devoted ones who love them.
They are living carpets, the centerpieces of their cathedrals.
Their beauty beakons in unspoken words and multitudes come calling.
To gaze into these emerald seas is sufficient for most...to tread is rare indeed.
This beauty should not be limited.
Yet, if there were no end, when would we rise to do things necessary?
If not for the fences and the final outs would we not live and die here among these blades of bliss?
Speed leads off, playing center...
Contact's up next, at short...
Glove, playing third, bats the same...
Power hits clean-up and plays first...
Grits catches - bats 5th...
Pivot follows and handles second...
Potential is in the 7 spot, defending left...
Slump temporarily bats eighth and plays right field...
Knuckles is on the mound and will bat ninth