(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy
Friday” email on 11/5/11.)
It all came rushing back to me last week. I was watching the World Series, and it refreshed the memories of my days playing baseball as a kid. What I can tell you is that I was darn good at team sports, as long as they didn’t involve throwing a ball … or catching a ball … or hitting a ball … or kicking a ball. Well, and then there’s the whole concept of teamwork. What’s with THAT? You could always count on me being where the action was: sitting on the bench with my friend, Conley H. Home plate was just steps away where strikes were called, balls were hit, and runs were made. We quietly made announcer-like commentaries of all the mistakes blundered by the guys actually playing the game. We didn’t discriminate between players wearing t-shirts that matched ours or those worn by the other team. We were all about fairness. Anybody could be our target that summer between fifth and six grades.
We spent considerable time admiring our mitts. Our two gloves
were easily the best of the team’s because they looked … unused. We described
them as being in “mint” or “uncirculated condition,” much like the coins we
collected. We knew they’d be worth a fortune as “classics” one day and took
great pride in keeping them clean.
One game, the coach put me in … for no particular reason. I’m not
even sure we were ahead. Obviously, he wasn’t much of a coach or he would have
had a better sense for winning. I usually tried to avoid eye contact with him
and did my best to look unpathetic so he wouldn’t put me in for sympathy play.
So, there I was in my backup position at right field, far from the action of
home plate. It wasn’t a bad position if you had to play, because there was a
good chance you wouldn’t have to take responsibility for the ball (see
disclaimer above). I started off with some limbering up to increase my agility
playing a standing position. The downside of right field was not having much to
do before my best move of “hustling off the field” at the end of the inning. I chased
around some grasshoppers that were encroaching on my area, admired my mitt, and
wondered how many outs were left.
Suddenly, there was a high fly hit directly to me. I didn’t even
have to move. I stuck my glove over my head as the ball headed straight for it.
The thrill was about to happen. Intuitively, my signature rapid-eye-flutter
engaged, along with survival recall that screamed, “It’sgoingtosting,
it’sgoingtosting, it’sgoingtosting,” … and I jerked my mitt out of harm’s way
to safety at the very last moment. I quickly ran after the ball, finally found
the handle after careful searching, and hurled it with pinpoint accuracy toward
the bases. It rolled amazingly close to the outskirts of the area where I had
last intimidated insects. And, by some miracle of insight, the first baseman
had predicted this series of events and was well on his way to retrieving the
ball. He relayed it to home plate where it arrived within two minutes of the
hitter crossing over to a home-run celebration that had awaited him.
My arrival back at the bench received less fanfare. Conley was
sent in to take my place at right. I took silent pride in my sacrifice play
that propelled him into the game. I’m just that kind of friend. When he
returned to the bench, we didn’t really say much about what had happened; both
of us quite satisfied with how we’d handled the ball. It wasn’t long before
Greg C. made a spectacular diving catch that brought cheers from
everybody on our team. But Conley and I knew he’d paid a price. His mitt had
undoubtedly sustained both a hard-ball abrasion … AND indelible grass stains.
What kind of glory is that compared to owning a mitt in uncirculated condition?
L. Haymond
Former Contender
No comments:
Post a Comment