While scores of thousands head on Saturdays and Sundays to celebrate and root on in brilliant colors and vibrant tapestries their teams to victory, the brutal stretch through summer into autumn and the Series is often left in the background. The old ‘national pastime’, oft deemed a relic and relegated to third or fourth tier in the world of fast, immediate gratification purposefully marches on.
I sat the other afternoon and watched just a few short innings of a Little League baseball game. One team adorned with matching jerseys, pants and cleats; the other more a ragtag bunch of mismatched T-shirts straight from the images of the Bad News Bears or the Sand Lot.
I told a friend that this was romance. One boy facing another. Pitcher to batter. A Gentleman’s duel of sorts. In those brief seconds nothing in the world mattered except for facing whatever is being thrown their way. Simplistic and yet defined, it’s also scary as hell. No, it’s not a 98 mph fastball thrown towards your knees in an attempt to get you to swing. But it is standing up to the plate, saying a ‘nod to God’, and preparing yourself for whatever comes.
And the outcome; sometimes we strike out. Sometimes we stand and realize that we’re outmatched. But we do it with dignity. Well, sometimes it’s not so much dignity when we’re swinging - swinging - swinging and the umpire yells ‘he’s out!’ Other times we pause, realizing that there’s nothing we need to do but just stand. Ball 1. Ball 2. We become mindful. We watch and we take in the moment. Ball 3. Now we decide. Maybe it’s okay to swing, but only if it feels, looks right. Ball 4. Patience sometimes wins out. We take our base.
And other times we make contact. We get to hear the crack of hickory and leather. Now we move forward, quickly leaving our stance and running with all we have towards the next destination. The next step.
Each time we step up we never know what the outcome is going to be. But we prepare for that. We don’t know when we’re going to stand in awe and watch as we’ve hit the perfect pitch, over the heads of the infield. Going, going, going. Gone!
And sometimes the ball gets just enough contact to send the players in the field into a beehive nest of activity; all with the common goal of defending not just their turf, but their pride.
It is a beautiful sport. A beautiful game. A game played by boys, young men and old. My grandfather played softball into his late 70s. And he was good at it. He also taught me how to watch a game without the sound - relishing in the moments of romance. Something I’ve never thought of until I sat with him. To watch the game; it’s passion and revelry and the chase for some meaning.
I stand today, facing the morning. And I know that I have the opportunity to breathe, to be patient…
and to swing when the pitch is right.
for Richie
~ Peace
The Burtle
👍🏻
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