It’s a game of beauty
I would imagine that most writers in this country, urban and rural alike, have at least one good baseball story they like to tell. It is, after all, a near perfect game worthy of a passing glance if not downright close examination by anyone with a penchant for detail and statistics. Sportsman, spectator, or otherwise, there’s got to be one decent yarn in all of us when it comes to this beloved pastime.
Baseball. It’s a beautiful woman walking down the sidewalk in a summer dress. It’s first love at first sight in May, the smell of freshly cut grass in June and puppies in a box for a dollar–‘free’ of course, to a good home, anytime. It is watermelon in July and root beer in August. It’s the September State Fair when you’re eight and knowing God when you’re eighty. It is a million square miles of America.
My first Chicago apartment was three blocks east and 52 stories above the left-center alley bleachers of historic Wrigley Field. Alone and new to the city, there were many evenings during that 1996 season when I would simply gaze out above the cityscape of streets and gangways, elevated rail tracks and brown brick walk-ups that separated my high-rise dwelling from the Friendly Confines, and mentally recreate my own destiny, repairing my past with fantasy and grandeur. I’d stare westward into the lights listening to the bellows of the stadium, imagining the thrill of playing at such a level, in such a venue—that near perfect game of summer. From my soft-lofted perch I’d mentally motor around the base paths like a finely tuned sportscar and fire clothesline ropes from center to home with my rocket gun; above the cutoff man, without a bounce, and just before the collided tag out at the plate…I’d drink til the next morning with the catchers and ignore the pitchers and rookies. I’d negotiate my own contracts and wear my pants down low and hardly ever shave my jaw.
Chicago Cubs pitching coach and veteran Hall of Famer Fergie Jenkins lived in the same building that summer as did a handful of players who were always coming up and down from the Minors throughout the roller coaster season. The Fergie I observed was a quiet man; a towering figure, usually in a cowboy hat, jeans and boots who kept a tight smile on his face and a U-Haul trailer in the parking space next to mine Read more
That’s what I woke up to this morning. Windy, cold and spitting rain. I had a home inspection in the nearby foothills and I had to sit through a brief brown-out — a cloud of dust so thick I couldn’t see to drive. The Russian Thistle were on the march — that’s Tumbleweed to you. In all, a brisk and challenging morning.
