Play Ball
There were two older gentlemen in my former hometown who used to attend various school sporting events. Not because they had a grandchild or other significant person in their life participating, but just because they loved to see the kids, any kids, at play. They were sort of legendary and I gazed upon them with a mixture of admiration and a small hint of "this is the best they can do with their day?".
Yesterday, my wife and I walked well over a mile to a baseball diamond at one corner of town. Because our sushi had arrived faster than anticipated, and we ate it even faster than that, we appeared at the field almost a half hour before the scheduled first pitch. The stands were empty. In truth, the bleachers on each side of the diamond had a maximum seating capacity of about 15.
We had come to witness the game between competing 9 and 10 year olds. This was the rec league, so it was not comprised of the best the town had to offer but a mixture of talent ranging from those who wouldn't know a double play if it was handed to them on a silver platter to the one big guy who seemed both skilled at this undertaking and knowledgeable about its intricacies (force play at the plate, everyone move in). This was who we had come to scout.
Actually, scout may be a bit of a hyperbole. You see his parents and grandparents are close friends of ours. And we had heard of the growing legend of this now 10 year old for several years, seen his swing on video and knew he was destined for baseball immortality. At least a grandparent's version of that word.
By game time, the crowd had swelled, reaching almost double figures. There was one small, almost too insignificant to mention, glitch. The umpire had not shown up yet. Soon word filtered through the stands (actually from the assistant coach to his parents, our friends) that the ump was stuck in traffic. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that excuse.
The problem was no inning could start after 7:30 PM since the 11 and 12 year old game was starting promptly at 8 PM come hell or 10 walks in a row. As 6 morphed into 6:30 and the field of play remained as empty as my promise to clean up my closet, the crowd (namely my wife and I) grew restless. But this was the sunk cost fallacy, as we were certain we would leave one moment before the ump decided he had finished his meal and it was acceptable for him to begin earning the pittance he was receiving for this evening's undertaking.
At 6:45 his majesty arrived, just as talk of mutiny had escalated. The only issue from our perspective was that my wife's bottom was now almost frozen, her having been planted on a cold metal bleacher for over an hour. As the sun set and the last hint of warmth disappeared with it, our wait mercifully concluded and the players readied for the first pitch.
It was, as anticipated, a mixture of sublime and some word which would be far less charitable. One pitch several yards high and wide, the next a Sandy Koufax beauty. Stolen bases, dropped fly balls (the shortstop berating himself for several minutes, treating his glove like a prisoner of war and subjecting it to almost unimaginable torture) and assorted other goodies that punctuated the affair.
The game likely lasted 2 innings before curfew. We lasted one. But we did get to see a Ruthian blast by our hero, clearing both the bases and the head of the beleaguered and slightly bewildered left fielder.
As we departed, I found myself asking my friend to email the schedule of upcoming contests involving his favorite ballplayer.
And my thoughts turned to the fields of yesteryear and the 2 whose love of athletic endeavors brought them back again and again to cold grandstand seats and the opportunity to watch strangers at play.
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