A Rite of Spring

Life has more or less returned to normal in my house, now that the adventures of the adversely afflicted appendix have more or less come to an end. While I still occasionally get twinges of pain in my side (a sign of trying to return too quickly to the previous routine), these are but nuisances that haven't yet kept me from trying to fulfill my responsibilities to the weekly chaos that is our calendar. As many parents well know, the impact of such after school activities such as sports, scouts, piano, and karate frequently wreaks havoc upon a family, at least in the sense that family meals are all but impossible, and conversation is often reduced to "How was your day? Great, gotta go, see you later tonight."

One of these contributors to our schedule is an annual rite of spring - the return of little league baseball. Three nights a week, plus some Saturdays, I am out at the ball field with my son as his team works to get ready for the upcoming season. During the day, I sometimes groan inwardly about having to get home, get the kid fed and out to the ball field for an hour and a half or more of practice. But that all seems to change when I actually get to the park.

Baseball, as far as sports go, is my one true love. I grew up playing it, watching it, and dreaming about it. While I was never really good enough to excel at the game, those deficiencies did nothing to hinder the joy of being on the field, terrified and yet hopeful that the ball would get hit to me so that I could make a play. I stopped playing after the 6th or 7th grade, and when I entertained trying out for the high school team as a sophomore, I realized that I would never be able to catch up to what they were pitching. I would later settle for playing softball through college and the working years before the boys came along. It's been 10 years since I played for a team.

Now I watch my son play. And not unlike the movie Field of Dreams, at times something magical seems to happen when I step inside the gate to the field, to stand inside the dugout to watch the 8 year olds practice. Suddenly, I'm no longer worried about the day or how tired I am. Instead, I watch with both terror and hope at each fly ball that heads toward my son, simultaneously wondering if he will catch it or get smashed in the face. I will him in my mind's eye to get in front of each grounder, with the glove on the ground to scoop up the ball and get it to first on time. My muscles twitch instinctively, as if I was the one on the field trying to make the play. I watch as he takes his swings at the plate, longing myself to hold a bat in my hands and do the same. And I fill with pride, at the end of each practice, when my son complains that practice is over "too soon," and that he wants to stay on the field and play some more. That's the joy I feel, even standing in the dugout, unable (at least for a few more weeks) to volunteer my time to help the coaches. Am I living vicariously? Perhaps a little. But I don't care.

Just to be out there between the lines, running the bases, smothering a liner with an outreached glove, making the play - that is the field of my dreams. I do love this game.