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Summer’s Game

[Note: I ran across a friend over the weekend and we exchanged a few words about the warm weather. Through the years he often stopped into the bookstore to talk baseball, a favorite topic through the years that we have been friends. So, with the warmer weather and Spring Training now in full swing in Florida and Arizona we were soon on our exchanging thoughts on the upcoming baseball season.

Before we parted, he mentioned a column that I had written years ago about baseball and wondered if he could get a copy. Faced with a myriad of tasks looming before me (including getting my son off to visit his girlfriend in the Ukraine, I decided that the best way to get him his copy of the column is to simply re-print it here]

Early last week, I bought myself a new baseball glove.

There are few items in the world that have such a fundamental appeal. A baseball glove speaks of perpetual youth and endless possibility. As I sat at the kitchen table one evening and carefully rubbed oil into the new leather, the touch and the smell evoked a multitude of feelings. In my mind I remembered the endless hours spent playing catch with my father, and I remembered pick-up games when I was Roberto Clemente, or Ferguson Jenkins or Harmon Killebrew – depending on the day.

I sat quietly in satisfaction; my hand unconsciously rising to my brow to lightly rub a scar buried there and remembered my friend, Jeff, throwing a magnificent curve ball that I, in a catcher’s squat, misjudged. A visit to the emergency room and several stitches followed, but when I healed we were soon out playing catch again, and I never hesitated to return to my catcher’s crouch awaiting Jeff’s next curve ball. The sight of a baseball sailing across open space, the sound of the ball striking the leather of the glove, and the simple repetition of movement conveys a grace of motion that may, or may not, be present in reality, yet is always there in the mind’s eye.

As I snugged a new baseball into the glove where I wanted the pocket to form, I reflected on the years we lived in Tampa. The city played host to the Cincinnati Reds’ Spring Training camp and each February and March I would go out to the games to watch young men vie with seasoned veterans for a chance to play in the Major Leagues.

In particular I remember Jesus Alou (one of the three Alou brothers playing in the Majors at that time) of the Houston Astros. Before the game, crowds of kids like myself would shout from the railings by the dugout hoping to get an autograph. On a chance day I spotted Alou and called out, “Mr. Alou, can I have your autograph.”

Perhaps it was because I was respectful, perhaps it was just chance, but Alou came over to where I was leaning out and lifted me over the railing onto the field. He spoke broken English, but we talked for several minutes. He introduced me to several players, including Joe Morgan and Jimmy “The Toy Cannon” Wynn, and then asked if I’d like to hit some batting practice.

A Major League ballpark, even one designed for spring training games, is intimidating to a fourth grader – at least it was in my case. So instead of taking Alou’s offer, I withdrew my well-worn glove from under my arm and replied, “If it’s all right, I’d just like to play some catch.” And Alou beamed and ducked into the dugout to retrieve his glove.

Soon I was standing amid a row of professional ballplayers tossing baseballs back and forth to teammates (in my case Alou), listening to their idle talk and reveling in the fact that not one player questioned my right to be among them. I had a glove, I could catch, and I could throw, and that is all that was required to be accepted.

My new glove rests now, tied tightly shut while I allow the pocket to form, readying itself for tomorrow – or the day after, or the day after that – when the sun will shine brightly and the warmth will rise from the grass. And then it will call to me and I will slip it onto my hand, snugging it tightly to my palm.

I’ll have my friend Jeff over and we will throw the ball back and forth for a time. Perhaps, if my knees will allow me, I will crouch down and beckon him to throw a curve – over the outside part of the plate, tailing away from a right-handed batter. And together we will revel in the simple repetition of motion, in the sight of a sphere arcing across open space, in the sound of the ball striking leather, in the simple camaraderie, and in the shared belief – for a while, at least – that all things are still possible.