Field of Dreams

In the mid 1980’s most of my spare time during the summers was spent doing one thing – softball. When I wasn’t playing I was practicing. And the time I devoted to my favorite pastime paid off. I played left field for our church team and had a blast doing it. I wasn’t the greatest, but I could hold my own and I could promise you that if you watched me play I was worth the price of admission (free). When I stepped to the plate the outfielders didn’t quake with fear. As a matter of fact, they usually moved in a step or two. But I knew how to find the gaps and every season I was good for an inside-the-park home run or two. My batting average, if you kept with such things (and I did), usually hovered around .650 to .750.

That was in the mid-80’s.

This past week I got a text. It read, “Kevin, we need you to come out of retirement, strap on the cleats, and grab your glove.” My reluctance to put this body rapidly approaching a half-century, through the tortures was overcome by the memories of grandeur. So I dusted off my glove, my cleats and my batting gloves and headed for the ball park.

The feel of the red dirt under my feet was all too familiar. I knew I needed to stretch before getting started but none of my teammates were so why should I? I asked the coach where he wanted me and he hesitantly said, 2nd base. With visions of Ryne Sandberg in my head I took a few tosses from the 1st baseman, handled them all cleanly, and prepared for my first inning in several years. A few batters into the opposing lineup and I had the first ball hit my way. I scooped it up, reached in the glove, pulled out the ball and made a fluid motion to first. At least that’s how it went in my mind. In all actuality the ball never made it to first as it danced out of my glove eluding my grasp when I tried to throw it. Silently I prayed a prayer I never prayed while I was in my twenties. “Please Lord, don’t let them hit it my way.”

In spite of my lack of prowess on the field, I knew that facing the pitcher, I was destined to relive my greatness. My first time up I was informed of the new rule, you start with a 1-1 count. This means I only get 2 strikes. No worries. So I stepped to the plate and faced what I assumed was the pitcher since all I saw was a blazing sun behind him. This gave me about a half second to see the ball. Within 20 seconds I was dragging my bat back to the dugout. The mighty Kevin had struck out. In softball. Swinging.

My next inning in the field brought only one ball hit my way. It was a hot grounder up the middle. I took a step to my right and dove for it. It was just out of reach for the outstretched glove. In my mind. Truth be told, I think I fell more than dove. But it looked good. In my mind.

My next at bat the sun had set low enough that I could get a better look at the ball. I think the pitcher saw the determination in my eyes. The next two pitches were curve balls. Yes, you can throw a curve ball in slow pitch softball. I swear I saw the ball move. Although it may have been forced by the tremendous wind created when I swung, and missed, two more times. Yes, Mighty Kevin had struck out again.
Recognizing my talents could be used better elsewhere I was called in to be the relief pitcher. In my mind. The next few innings were a breeze. Again probably caused by my swinging strikeout for the third time! In my defense, the umpire thought I was taller than I actually was and called a pitch a strike that was clearly over my head so I HAD to swing at a bad pitch.

The final inning saw my team staging a rally. We had put several runs on the board. And with two outs, the batter in front of me stepped to the plate. I must now publicly apologize to him as I prayed once again a prayer I had never prayed. “Dear Jesus, let him make the third out so I don’t have to bat again.” Dear Jesus heard my prayer as the sharp grounder was scooped up and he forced out a runner at second to end the game.

You would think that was the end of my tale. However, anyone over the age of 40 will tell you that with every new sporting event you try comes new muscle aches. I somehow managed to make it home and into bed. The next morning my wife played a cruel joke on me and moved the medicine cabinet down the block. In my mind. As I sit here today, because I can’t get up, I smell of menthol as I wrapped patches all over my body. In my attempt to play last night I think I have found the perfect way to lose weight as I am too sore to even chew. Yep, the pounds are dropping off of me as I type.

In my mind.

Questions

When my daughter was a toddler she reached that stage in her life where everything was a question. “Why is the sky blue? Why is that man dressed so funny? Why you gotta go to work?” My wife and I swore we would never resort to the answers, “Just because,” or its sister response, “Because I said so!” Eventually she grew out of that stage. Probably because, like most teenagers, she knew it all.
As I begin to top the crest of the middle-age hill I have started to notice that I am asking questions based on what I see around me. Driving through Hattiesburg I wonder, “Why are the push handles on the pull side of the door to Dickie’s Bar-b-que?” I also wonder why they don’t close off the west bound turn lane into Wal-Mart and make westbound traffic turn at the light? Wouldn’t that stop the traffic from blocking other intersections – especially at Christmas time?
My questions aren’t limited to the man-made things either. Sometimes I sit during my quiet time and say to God, “Bugs? Really?” Of course, I know that without bugs we would be missing an integral part of life – characters for Disney movies.
Now, I am just as much to blame for the questions as anyone. I have yet to figure out how I cannot feel my cell phone vibrate when someone calls but constantly feel it vibrate when it isn’t even in my pocket! As I get older I also wonder why I am prone to repeat myself.
I have plenty of other questions. Like, if the metric system is such a good idea, then why don’t we have metric clocks where the entire day is divided into 10 or 100 hours? Or, why don’t we make cars out of rubber? That way, if you hit someone you just bounce off them. And the windshields should all be made out of photochromic material so they would darken in the sunlight and lighten at night.
And what about strollers? Shouldn’t they make the strollers for the adults? The kids don’t want to ride in them anyway. They just want to push them. This would make shopping so much more pleasant for us guys.
I grew out of it when I was a toddler. Does it get any better as I get older? Or will I wonder why I am prone to repeat myself?