ROLLED UP SOCKS

When you wake up on the day after; whatever it was that propelled you through the day before and into the night, it has been spent like a Slinky Toy on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. You wake up to the sound of thunder and to rain drops, pelting through the screen above your head. The wet and cool feel good but what you can’t escape is the newness of the moment and the fleeting sense of yesterday’s adventure. It is a new day and it will unfold as it should but for now, I’m framing recent history. I don’t want to forget any of it so it runs over and over like instant replay. That’s how you do it. 

I never had a ‘Bucket List’, I’m not that organized. But I do get around and looking back at where I’ve been and what I’ve done, there might be a bucket list there, of sorts. I tend to see those kinds of things in hindsight, as entrees that life has served up rather than a list of things to do. From noon Tuesday through noon Wednesday, life served me up a truly awesome plate-full. This morning, still dark when it should have been light, with rain blowing in my window, I timed out. Before the new day could demand my attention, I took pleasure in yesterday’s wake.
           Baseball: I think of the movie, ‘Field Of Dreams’ and James Earl Jones’ omniscient voice. Kevin Costner was the star but it was Jones’ voice that defined the movie. He raised the game from National Pastime to Sacred Ritual. You could play the game but you were expendable, it didn’t need you. That’s the game I grew up with. When I was 9 my mother took me outside to play catch with a pair of rolled up socks. She threw the sock-ball up for me to run under and make the catch. She called the action, play-by-play just like on the radio; described game situations where we turned double plays and picked off runners in our own back yard game. From Little League and American Legion, through the army and college, I played baseball. 

If you buy into ESPN hoopla or the urgency of hard boiled competitors where 1st place is the only place and anything else is for losers, then we are chasing different dreams. I always wanted to win but win or lose, most of all I just wanted to play. My motivation was always rooted in the way the ball nested between my thumb and fingers. It was about the salty, dusty taste on your lip and the sting of the bat in your hands. If winning is why you play, then any game will do. I identify with the James Earl Jones character; there is something righteous about 90 ft. between bases and 60 ft. 6 in. from the rubber to the plate. Maybe more profound than the ten commandments, baseball spills over into every aspect of this life. 

When life took me in a new direction, baseball remained a constant. Bases loaded, 3 & 2 count, 2 outs, everybody running on the pitch: I walked away, it didn’t leave me. I’m not much of a fan. Teams come and go and in the end they are like the pipe that brings water to the tap inside your house. Without the water, it has no purpose. So when I got the chance to go to the College World Series in Omaha, it was about the game, not so much the teams.  L.S.U. & University of Florida had survived the double elimination preliminaries, meeting in the best 2 of 3 game, final series. I went to the second game; Florida had won the first game the night before. If L.S.U. wins, it forces a third, decisive game and if Florida wins, they are National Champions. I was ready to watch young men who were little boys at heart. They all hoped to play in the major leagues someday but that would have to wait. 

There is a saying among fanatics, “It’s not a game, it’s a way of life.” I think that’s a lot of self righteous bravado. I say, “Your way of life, whatever it may be: that’s what you bring to the game.” It truly is a game with a life of its own and what you do with it is up to you. With hot bats, strong pitching and solid defense, Florida steadily pulled away, winning 6 - 1. L.S.U. fans ranged from being graceful losers but more often to ugly, angry malcontents. I have some experience with the L.S.U. fan base and I have no sympathy for their super egos or their disregard for second place. They didn’t play well enough to win, simple as that but it was a good game. I loved it when every seat in the stadium was taken and standing room space was full. The L.S.U. crowd outnumbered the U.F. fans 3:1 or more and their passion was overwhelming. They expected a victory. Anything less would be a calamity. I was sitting in the middle of a tribal ceremony; like true believers praying for a miracle, convinced their prayer would turn the tide. When questioned, my neutrality was hard for them to understand. “I just want to be here, in this spot, right now and to see great baseball.” When I was a player, our coach told us every day, “Take preparation seriously, pay attention and work hard. When game day comes, have fun and let winning take care of itself.”It was something I could take with me and lean on for a lifetime: and yes, we won a lot more than we lost. 

So I can add another check mark to my bucket list; something I’ve always wanted to do. I’m not particularly fond of Nebraska but Omaha is special. It is very much a baseball town with great history and support for their teams and home of the College World Series. Besides that, Omaha is a railroad town. From the coming of the iron horse and twin rails across the continent, Omaha is still a transportation hub. Even with the evolution of diesel locomotives, it’s common place to hear the choo-chooing of old time engines and see steam jetting from around the whistle and behind the driver wheels. That is the other part of my 24 hours in Omaha but I’ll have to write about it some other time.