Recently, my disillusion with humankind has been renewed. It makes me wish I had a different band wagon to jump onto. Still, I’m not going to flipflop in a flash of insight like Saul on the road to Damascus. I suppose I’ve been hanging onto a thread of Hope. Unlike Faith, it abides without any promises. Still, Hope does come with motivation and purpose, to keep on keeping on.
On the other hand, the arc of history has a long, flat trajectory. Trying to glean historical meaning from this turbulent moment is like unraveling the history of Economics from only the coins in your pocket. It may be what you notice first but if all you have to write with are periods and comas, where is the story? What disarms me now is likely nothing more than the minuscule, random flicker of a long burning candle. A single, human lifespan may seem enough but history requires many generations to gage its own arc.
I have likened human history to a train on an endless track, never going back. People are all born on board but unlike the song, ‘Hotel California’ there is no difference between checking out and leaving and that can happen any time. Passengers on the train interact, watch the scenery go by and find their niche (earn their living) right there in the observation car. Ten thousand years ago, clad in animal skins they were hunter gatherers with stone tools and weapons, tending their campfires with great care. On this end of history’s arc, passengers wear lycra and cotton, carry back packs and suit cases while text messaging and making new friends on FaceBook. At this point so far, I can recall most of my human train ride. Rather than bitch about today’s turbulence or tomorrow’s uncertainty, I would be thankful for the ride. Some days on the train are worth the remembering.
In 1953, baseball was king. My town wasn’t really a town, no city government, no town square, just a post office, a couple of churches, open fields and scattered houses. Our little league baseball program stopped with 11-12 year-olds, but the next town down the road had a team for 13 & 14. I remember my mom driving me over to City Hall in Grandview, Missouri to sign up. At the time, being from a rival school was no big deal. I was just a new face. I swung an average bat but my arm was strong, with a good glove and soft hands I plugged into a 3rd base/shortstop/Catcher rotation, depending on who was pitching. If I couldn’t get a ride, the 5 mile bike ride was its own reward.
Under the lights one Saturday night, a big commotion in the parking lot almost stopped the game. Former President, Harry Truman arrived with his Secret Service bodyguard. They sat in folding chairs on top of our dugout. Media reporters came by for a quote and photos. In the dugout, we were so close we could hear them laugh. One of the things I liked about catching was that I sweat a lot, it took some of the itch out of the heavy wool uniform. Changing out of my gear between innings, I got a smile and a nod from the Secret Service bodyguard. We were all too cool to covet their attention but I did return the smile and the nod. The retired President lived in nearby Independence, Missouri but Grandview was his home town when he was a boy.
I turned 14 that summer. In Grandview I made new friends and grew some confidence. Best of all, I got to play baseball. My place in the batting order was usually 7, sometimes 8 but with 17 or 18 players, I never sat the bench. Come August our season played itself out. We won more than we lost, good enough to have great fun and feel good but no place for us in the playoffs.
At my school the coaches started breaking out football equipment and I was not a new face. I would be a 9th grader and I could go out for the team. With no freshman team, I was too small to compete with the big guys but I got to do warm up exercises, run sprints and hold a dummy. At the time, freshman football was about taking your licks and paying your dues. I had two friends who were big, fast and strong enough to get some playing time but at 115 pounds, my job was to jump in the middle of every opportunity, get knocked down, then get back up with a smile.
In school, the 9th grade was better than I thought it would be. We were in the same building as the year before but we had new teachers. Playing baseball in Grandview, they filled out paperwork from my birth certificate and called me by my first name. I liked that. In 9th grade, class lists went by permanent records. From the first day, they called me by my first name, Frank. It took a while for my classmates to make the switch but come Thanksgiving, nobody called me LeRoy.
From a career in education, I know that adolescence and early teenage years can be like navigating a minefield, still I don’t remember experiencing much social pressure or unrealistic expectations. Academically, I did just enough to get by. Socially, I was never a popular, mainstream character but I always managed to fit in. I am still on this train, still making memories. I love finishing with a great quote. This one comes from Forrest Church, a former Unitarian Minister; “Do what you can; Want what you have; Be who you are.”
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