Cartwheels in the Outfield

 365

When someone asks you your favorite sport

And you answer Baseball in a blink

There are certain qualities you must possess

And you're more attached than you think.

In the frozen grip of winter

I am sure you'll agree with me

Not a day goes by without someone

Talking baseball to some degree.

The calendar flips on New Year's Day

The Super Bowl comes and it goes

Get the other sports out of the way

The green grass and the fever grows

It's time to pack a bag and take a trip

To Arizona or the Sunshine State

Perhaps you can't go, but there's the radio.

So you listen-you root- you wait.

They start the campaign, pomp and pageantry reign

You claim the pennant on Opening Day

From April till fall

You follow the bouncing white ball

Your team is set to go all the way.

They fall short of the series

You have a case of the "wearies"

And need a break from the game

But when Christmas bells jingle

You feel that old tingle

And you're ready for more of the same.

It will be hot dogs for dinner

Six months of heaven, a winner

Yes, Baseball has always been it.

You would amaze your friends

If they knew to what ends

You'd go for a little old hit.

The best times you've had

Have been with a bat and a ball and a glove.

From the first time you played

Till the last time you prayed

it's been a simple matter of love.

Jack Buck

When I was a kid, I used to spend time in the country at my grandparent's house. It was a totally different experience. My brothers were left at home. Life was much slower.  I had the full attention of both my grandmother and grandfather. There are lots of things I remember from that time, but one I am reminded of every spring is how I learned about baseball.

My grandfather did not like football. He said it was too violent for sport. He liked baseball. I watched the game of the week with him on Saturday afternoons, and he'd laugh along with Pee Wee Reese and Dizzy Dean. He'd also talk about the strategy behind the play. It took me a while, but I learned over time that this was a seemingly boring but in fact a very sophisticated game of individual skill, team play, and an underlying game of offensive and defensive moves and counter moves.

The game also has a very smooth and calming cadence. There are big exciting moments; there are crushingly disappointing moments woven into those nine innings. But much of it is pitch and catch, or pitch and swing, or pitch and hit in a very methodical format: ball one, strike one, foul ball, a ball and two strikes, etc. I loved going to live games, or watching them on TV. Later, especially when working at the nursery, I would listen to games on the radio as I worked. It was the perfect backdrop of imagining the game pitch by pitch while preforming some mindless but necessary task such as transplanting.

This year, in the early, blustery days of the new baseball season, I had the opportunity to watch my 7 year old great niece play in her first softball game. I loved the idea that she was learning the girl's version of baseball at such an early age. It would be fun to talk strategy with her. 

There she was, all decked out in her beautiful pale blue uniform with red socks and cleats. She certainly looked the part. Yeah, ok, the batting helmet looked a little big, as did the glove. But her stance with the bat on her shoulder at home plate was about perfect.

Maybe you can just get a hint of the rest....Each batter got about 10 strikes. Some needed more to get a hit. But if you could make contact, for sure you could get a hit, because fielding the ball and throwing it to a base- any base!- was nearly impossible. 

So you get a hit. What next?? RUN!! 

But where? and then what? The next batter gets a hit. Where should you run?? Or even when??

Meanwhile the bleachers full of parents and extended family members were screaming directions to each and every kid on the field.

"Run!!" "Stop!!" "Throw it!!" "Tag her!!"  "Go home!!" "The base is over there!!"

The coaches were doing their best to keep things calm, and to instruct after the fact. The bleacher crowds cheered. So did the batting team. For each batter, the girls on her team would chant the cheer:

Come on, (batter's name), you can do it

Put a little power to it

Hit the ball! Over the wall!

And get a hooooome run!

They were so good at the cheer. So good, in fact, that the cheerers quickly lost sight of their batting order. "Where's my helmet? Where's my bat? Am I next?"

When their turn came to play in the field, they all tried incredibly hard. After all, it was only their first game. Getting used to catching that ball with the gloved hand (which you may know is NOT the preferred hand), figuring out what to do with the ball once in the glove.....These were all skills that would come with practice. 

And sometimes, when play was delayed, one or

two outfielders could use the time for practicing other things.

Somewhere near the 100th hit- or about the 3rd inning- my niece brilliantly scooped up a hit ball and ran to first base. OUT!! The very first out performed by either team! She was the hero, and her grandmother- one of the most vocal of the bleacher bums- almost ran out onto the field to congratulate her.

When the allotted time was over, and the next two teams lined up to play, we all walked back to the cars. In addition to lauding her with the highest praise, someone asked "How did you like it?" 

Big smile. "It was awesome". 

Grantland Rice said "It's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game". I expect that this little band of girls will continue to improve the way they play the game. Their physical skills will mature. They will learn the thinking process behind the physical play. But I might add one more thing: I hope every time they get out on the field, it will be awesome.

Baseball is 90% mental and the other half is physical.

Little League Baseball is a very good thing because it keeps the parents off the streets.

Yogi Berra

Ephemeral Certainty

  

 

A Light exists in Spring

Not present on the Year

At any other period —

When March is scarcely here

 

A Color stands abroad

On Solitary Fields

That Science cannot overtake

But Human Nature feels.

 

It waits upon the Lawn,

It shows the furthest Tree

Upon the furthest Slope you know

It almost speaks to you.

 

Then as Horizons step

Or Noons report away

Without the Formula of sound

It passes and we stay —

 

A quality of loss

Affecting our Content

As Trade had suddenly encroached

Upon a Sacrament.

EMILY DICKINSON

 

  The Osprey pair came back last week. There's no 

mistaking that high pitched, mournful cry as they soar overhead. 

I forget about that sound over the winter, since they migrate south together. But I instantly recognize those long whistles as they return early each spring to the site of last year's nest in order to make a new one for this year. 

 I know about Ospreys, because this pair of birds has been nesting on the next door neighbor's broken boat lift for the past few years. They didn't bother anyone, and no one bothered them. I watched them construct their big messy nest, take turns incubating their eggs, fish and feed the young hatchlings and finally send the whole family for a spin overhead.

 The problem for these birds is that their former nesting site had been ripped down, 

covered with spiked caps, and replaced with a boat.  

After a few days of circling overhead, they seemed to have

 solved that minor problem with ease. They just began to build their usual nest on the T Top of the boat instead. 

 

What else would one expect them to do?

       It is still foggy, cool and gray here, but other signs of spring are beginning to flash.

                                 

    

    It is not at all obvious. But maybe, as the poet says, you can feel it. Look closely.

     Of course I look more to the plants.

 The early bud swell, the soft, often hairy fingers of leaves,

the grasp relaxing around flower buds is slow and sensual.  

The unveiling is provocative. The anticipation builds.

 Yet as slow as it is, as she says, it is changed- gone- in a relative instant.

That magnificently folded plant flesh will soon be

 a full, open, elegant structure.

        

The clouds of yellow pine pollen are not so

 subtle, well known signs of spring. Yet that pollen seems to sneak up on us every year.

 

         And sticks to everything...

                

             including water.

 It will happen this way year after year, without need of a calendar

reminder. If I am lucky, I can enjoy the light of those early, 

deliberate moments all over again.

 

If I am luckier still, I will feel it first.

"She turned to the sunlight and shook her head,

and whispered to her neighbor: 'Winter is dead.”

 

A.A. Milne     "When We Were Very Young"