I stare at the baseball field now empty and weedy. The scoreboard is rusted and the bleachers warp upward. It is quiet and overcast; memories tug at my sleeve as I stare at the infield. 25 summers ago I was here, right here, sitting cross-legged in the grass hoping to play. Scrawny with glasses too big for my face I sat under my Akron Lions ball cap and kept score. Dreams too big for my little body I would stare at the others and hope for my chance to come. The smell of hot dogs from a nearby vendor would drift over the field as the slap of leather or metallic tink of the bats echoed off the surrounding cornfields. I would chime in my yells of appreciation or encouragement from the bench and watch the game go on without me. It was not for a lack of trying that I sat over here and not stood out there. “I can play”, I told myself, “and I’ll show them”. Kicking the dirt and daydreaming as the game unfolded before me; suddenly my name was called from the baseline. My head jerked up and all 18 players stared over at me as play was stopped and again the coach called my name, this time with a bit of urgency. “Brian, pinch hit” he said as he pointed up to the plate. I had not planned for this moment and threw the stat book off my lap and ran up to grab a bat. I absently hitched up my pants as I frantically scanned the bats lying in the dirt. “32 or 34 I can’t remember” I breathed to myself. The game waited and I just picked up the lightest one I could find, gave it a few swings with as much conviction as I could muster and stepped out into the arena. The nights lying on my bed dreaming of this, the days spent throwing the ball against the wall with the thousands screaming my terrific catch were now suddenly quiet. My uniform felt painfully clean as I dug in to set my dreams in motion. The runner at second stepped off to get his lead and the third base coach shouted his encouragement. The game hung in the balance, this run needed to come home. It was up to me. The pitcher rocked back and gave me his first pitch. The slap of leather and the call of ‘strike’ from the umpire came alarmingly quick.
I felt sick. I couldn’t think straight and wished I was at home where I was a hero.
I stepped out and breathed deeply trying to get my wits. Everything felt too fast. Just moments ago I was sitting in the grass with a pencil in my hand hoping we would win so we could get slushees.
Back in and another pitch. I didn’t even see it and swung. Again the slap of leather and I was now in a hole. I felt like a newborn colt trying to stay upright. Nothing felt connected. I was outside myself looking on in some spirit form. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
“Oh God just let me hit it” I exhaled. The runner at second clapped his encouragement but I swore I saw a look of ‘this is not going to work’ cross his face. As much as I dreamed for this moment I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I came to as the pitcher settled into his motion and fired. “DO SOMETHING!” my mind screamed to my body that was staging a coup. Arms flailed out and somehow the bat came around……somehow, some miraculous way the bat hit the ball. I could’ve sworn the earth shook and dead men rose from graves to new life. The hot dog vendor paused, mid grill. Children dropped their sno-cones and dogs jerked awake from sleepy naps. The Second Coming must be eminent.
The ball, beaten down into the ground skidded with as much authority as one kicked off the foot of a newborn. I ran for all I was worth, helmet bouncing on my head, keeping time with my fogged over glasses sliding down my nose. Out by a mile, inning over. Dream shattered.
The wind picked up as I remembered, now with a smile. I touched the tree by the spot where I sat that summer long ago. My daughter called from the playground as I turned and left the memories for another day. One dream forgotten another given.
