That Baseball on My Desk

I have on my desk a baseball. To say why I keep or tend or enshrine a baseball is less straightforward. The ball is not autographed other than to say in faint blue letters it is “official,” in the loop of the red seam exclaiming “premium leather.” The surface of the ball has miscellaneous nicks and scratches from use, I don’t remember the where.

It is when I am sitting at my desk that I take the ball in one hand and roll it, I don’t know why other than the subdural comfort of the thing. Perhaps it is strange, getting comfort from the feel of a baseball, perhaps not. I am of a mind to say it is therapeutic. The ball has a feel to it that is vaguely intoxicating. My fingers trace the seams and I can almost imagine myself on that gentle rise of ground facing some incarnation of Barry Bonds, though my preference is Hank Aaron. My bias comes from my historical placement. When there were no steroids. An article recently suggested the use of steroids can result in a 10 percent gain of muscle mass which a sports physiologist translated to a five percent velocity increase of the bat speed and a four percent increase in distance of any ball so unfortunate. A 300-foot fly ball goes an extra 12 feet. A 400-foot smack reaching out a nifty 416. The bottom line for steroids is a whopping 50 percent increase in home runs. I do not dispute the use of chemistry to enhance physical performance, nor acupuncture or yoga for that matter. Perhaps it is time for sports to make its peace with chemistry. My daughter, as the result of arthritis, has been on steroids for years and it does affect her performance as a mother and breadwinner. That mister Bonds hit 762 is not the point, rather to tie my Hank Aaron he needs hit 1,143 home runs. Fair is fair. Chemistry is chemistry.

It is that I tend to favor pitchers in the great contest. Pitchers and their fervent, frantic fingers as they tumble and implore the ball to do what physics say is theoretically possible. Held just so, released just so, tilting to the air stream just so, and the ball arcs like a comet in the pull of some great Jovian. Popular science magazines routinely return with a smirk to the ancient question, does a curve ball really curve, does a sinker really sink, and what’s so darn wrong with a spitball? Physics of course already knows, aerodynamics is universal, doesn’t make any difference whether it’s particles, light rays, or the event horizon of a black hole. Doesn’t matter, a spitball has a sublime arc you can’t get with just Brylcream. As to our compliment of gases, it’s the nitrogen that provides the curve ball, the molecule has a noticeably sticky component, a ball spun off the index finger with just the right index of tilt to the air flow is gonna curve away from the batter and slink to the low corner of the plate. Some believe the ball can be taught to stutter in midair. That I think is theoretical at best, same with the business where the ball seems to stop in midair, then dart mischievously in a new direction. But most batters don’t read physics to know the pitching mound is not a super-collider and making the ball dart tangentially takes more than sandpapering the south side stitches.

Personally I’m not into yoga or those assorted meditative postures inspired by the wisdom of reverend Buddhist monks somewhere in the mists of the Himalayas. Which is not to say I don’t need to assume the position occasionally to find connection with ethereal dimensions. It’s just that I use a hard and joyfully red-stitched baseball to fumble in my left hand as I reach out for the peace that passeth understanding. This is my kind of connection to the astral-powers, to the serene gods of leather, white ash and slight rise of ground. As sometimes includes the strike zone.

Justin Isherwood is an award-winning writer, a Wisconsin farmer, humorist, author and contributor to numerous collections and publications including: Badger CommonTater, Isthmus, and Newsday. He is an essayist for the radio program, BookMarks & Art, airing on a CBS affiliate in central Wisconsin. His books include: Christmas Stones & the Story Chair, Book of Plough, and most recently, Farm Kid.