I am not a baseball fan. Never enjoyed the game that much growing up. Never built much of an affinity for any MLB team. I liked the accoutrements of baseball - the smell of grass and leather, the tension of a full count, the terrific father / son bonding opportunities. I still remember the first time my dad bought me a glove and showed me how to oil it and wrap a ball in it with a rubber band. But the game itself was just not that appealing. Of the four major sports, it's my least favorite and probably ranks behind some lesser sports like cycling and even soccer.
But three things have converged of late to pique my interest in baseball again. First and most importantly, my son loves it. It's strange to me that my four-year-old won't watch a fast-paced game like football or hockey but he wants to see every pitch of a Rangers game. I think it may be because he just loves to throw stuff. But whatever sport he chooses, I'm going to take an interest. If the kid wanted to sit and watch women's college field hockey, I would do it.
Secondly and most obviously, my hometown team is making one heck of a run. After a half century in obscurity, the Texas Rangers will make their first ever World Series appearance Wednesday. I know I'm a bandwagon fan and I'm not trying to pretend I've always been with them, but I've been following them through the playoff and will certainly be by the channel for some more DFW sports history.
Thirdly, one of my best friends just took a job with a baseball team. Not just any team though - everyone's lovable losers, the Chicago Cubs. Colin and Jaime Faulkner are dear friends and we're going to miss them. I intend to keep a much closer eye on the Cubbies than I ever have before. In fact, for irony's sake, I'm thinking of going to buy a Cubs cap (which would be the first piece of MLB merchandise I've ever purchased) on the day of the Rangers' first World Series game.
So I've got baseball on the brain more than ever before and it reminded me of this poem I wrote years ago. I wrote this when a friend's dad was going through some serious health issues so, to clarify, this isn't reflective of any health issues with my own dad. It just sort-of came to me from hearing my friend's plight mashed up in my head with the father / son relationship and this family-friendly sport. The poem was actually published once in a literary journal called The Coffee Faucet, but I think that publication has discontinued now, probably because they were accepting swill like mine. In any case, here's to watching October baseball with my son. Go Rangers.
Swing
All of life is in the swing of a bat.
That’s what Dad taught me, pointing to players and stances too far away to see while he held my Coke so that I wouldn’t spill.
In a sense, life is all physics. The ball is wound tight, stitched with knotty, red twine and hurled at you with speed. The bat is hardwood- sanded, polished, solid and heavy. There’s a pitch and a swing and life is ignited in the material.
But in another sense, the batter swings supernatural. With rhythm, timing, momentum, strength, hope. Toward the mystic union.
The critical time, the living part of the swing, is in the instant that contact is made. The hands feel the shock that reports that they’re alive and they’ve arrived at the right moment. The pitch is fast and the crack violent and stunning so that it feels like the bat should shatter or fall helplessly from the hands and the pitch continue on its ripping course.
But then the weight of bat and arms and the strength of hands and hips carry forward faith until, as quick as that, the course is changed and the bat swings away wide and shoulders open to the field before them and eyes look up to a sky of clarity and possibilities.
Last week, Dad’s doctor said “cancer.” The pitch was fast and, for a moment, I wondered if he would strike out. He seemed to swing free and I expected to hear the pitch forever sink into the padded mitt behind him, the chances gone.
But then the bat shook and hands and hips carried forward faith until, as quick as that, the bat swung away wide and shoulders opened and eyes lifted.
And all of life was in the swing of a bat.
