The Unseen Here and Now

The Best and Worst of Baseball
May 22, 2002

I've never been much of a baseball fan. Its too slow. And its too dangerous. Two words that seem incongruous side by side, but both true of baseball. I went out for baseball as a 10 year old and lasted all of 1 practice. Some of the kids that played the year before had brought their own balls, bats and gloves and before the coaches arrived, began a little pick up practice of their own. Last years pitcher and catcher lined up against last years best batter. I watched from the sidelines intently. Just how good were these guys?

In came the fast ball, hot and slick - "Swoosh" went the bat as a mighty swing was taken - "Pip", went the wood of the bat as it grazed the spinning ball and.... "AGGGGHHHHHH!!!", went the catcher as the ball smacked him square in the eye. Within 20 seconds it was as big as an orange and blue as a violet. From what I hear the kid never came back that year. I say, "from what I hear", because I didn't either.

The first words out of my mouth when picked up after practice were, "not my sport mom."

"Ask the kid over there in the emergency room." I pointed to Roanoke Memorial Hospital located adjacent to the park.

No further discussion required. Mom was now firmly in my camp, and the discussion with Dad went much the better for it. She, like I, was fine with basketball, soccer and even football, but heaving an 8 ounce thinly covered rock at each other was no longer acceptable sport.

As an adult I have absolutely no interest in baseball outside of the occasional minor league game that provides a wonderful venue in which to while away a summer evening. Its hard to beat the ambiance of hot dogs, peanuts, pretzels and cold beer while a game that is part ballet - part poker - part chess match, takes place on the well groomed field below. Sitting there amongst the great cross section of society, its easy to understand how baseball became such a uniquely wonderful American tradition - The national pastime if you're not counting checkers and politics.

But how anyone could ever spend more than 27 seconds watching a televised broadcast, I'll never know. If you watch baseball on TV, you are either : A. So rich you have nothing else you need to do and your TV tuner is broken. Or B. So poor you can't afford to do anything else and the your TV tuner is broken.

But I do enjoy watching our children play their little league games, and the other night we were treated to a great one. It was a "great one" because son George got a hit. Getting a hit might not seem like such a big deal, but in the first year of "Player Pitch", where the 8-10 year olds are pitching themselves, connecting with the ball is cause for celebration. In fact, "not getting hit" by the ball itself is a bit of a victory.

Accuracy is being strived for, but it is hardly mastered. The teams generally score by players being walked to first base and then stealing the rest while the pitcher attempts to control his throws. The end result is a series of close plays being made between the catcher, who chases down the ball, and either the second or third baseman depending on where the runner happens to be. It makes for pretty good sport, but its not exactly the pastime as Mickey Mantle or Joe Dimaggio knew it.

So the other night when George connected squarely with a rogue winner of a pitch, sending it into the green grass of the outfield, we were all ecstatic.

George took off as fast as his little legs would carry him and made it easily to first. His coaches yelled their approval - Mom gushed a bit - his Grandparents beamed with pride...

George managed to steal second and then third and then finally home, as the pitcher careened one off the top of the catchers helmet. It was close, but a pretty decent slide added to the score. The Final - SW Cardinals : 12, Team of Unknown Origin : 2.

After the game George was beaming. He received several extra high fives from his team mates as he left the field. He was moderately giddy but he had a certain calm about him too. A few minutes later, with just he and I riding home alone together, I ask him how it felt to hit that ball.

"It was the greatest moment of my life", came the response. George is a rather level headed 8 year old and not one for great swings of emotion. It was about the last thing I expected to hear.

"The greatest moment of your life?", I queried. George paused several seconds. He finally responded.

"Dad - it wasn't like I hit that ball. I mean it was like someone else did... It didn't seem like I was really paying attention... and then the next thing I know I can see the ball and the bat slowly coming to meet it, and then POP ! There it went... It was really strange - but it felt really, really good....

I smiled quietly in the front seat. I remembered the first time such a thing happened to me. At about his age, I was playing a friendly game of neighborhood softball with what were mostly older kids. I was standing dreamily out past first base somewhere short of where an outfielder might be when, CRACK!", one of the older kids laid heavily into a buttercup pitch served up just for him. I was counting clouds or sorting clovers with my toes or some such thing, when the sound of bat to ball brought me out of my stupor just in time to watch myself make a diving catch of a line drive that would have made Ozzie Smith proud.

The other kids cheered wildly as I came up with the ball. All I could think was, "How in the world did that happen?"

Several years later in a key game for our Sandlot football team I had an equally mysterious experience while going up to catch a pass that would enable us to get to the Championship game. Time had stood still as my body moved through the air not entirely under my own volition, and even before I hit the ground I knew that somehow, from somewhere in all the powers that rule the universe, I had just been given a very unique bit of assistance. My old football coach still talks about it to this day every time I see him.

"George, I'm not sure I can do a good job explaining it - but what you received tonight was a very special gift... a moment when, for reasons that you and I will probably never understand, everything lined up just right, and a window of sorts was opened somewhere... a window that allowed time and space to flow through in some manner that we don't experience everyday, or even ever for many of us. I myself can think of only 3 or 4 such experiences, and I count them among the most precious of my life... so I know what you mean when you say it was the most wonderful experience of yours..." George sat quietly for several moments.

"Well son, I don't know", I replied. "But I think it has something to do with desiring something just the right amount - not too much and not too little... a balance of sorts that finds us in the perfect moment at the perfect time with just the right perspective... when our bodies somehow become a conveyor of Grace that allows the physical part of our nature to become the expression of something more..." I glanced in the rearview mirror at George who was staring out over the darkening landscape.

	The Unseen Here and Now . . .

2002 Archives 2001 Archives 2000 Archives			Stuart Revercomb Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays. E-MAIL Click Here to subscribe to "Thursday's Fare"
		The Best and Worst of Baseball May 22, 2002 I've never been much of a baseball fan. Its too slow. And its too dangerous. Two words that seem incongruous side by side, but both true of baseball. I went out for baseball as a 10 year old and lasted all of 1 practice. Some of the kids that played the year before had brought their own balls, bats and gloves and before the coaches arrived, began a little pick up practice of their own. Last years pitcher and catcher lined up against last years best batter. I watched from the sidelines intently. Just how good were these guys? It took one pitch to find out. In came the fast ball, hot and slick - "Swoosh" went the bat as a mighty swing was taken - "Pip", went the wood of the bat as it grazed the spinning ball and.... "AGGGGHHHHHH!!!", went the catcher as the ball smacked him square in the eye. Within 20 seconds it was as big as an orange and blue as a violet. From what I hear the kid never came back that year. I say, "from what I hear", because I didn't either. The first words out of my mouth when picked up after practice were, "not my sport mom." "But dear you didn't even..." "I don't play baseball." "But don't you think you should..." "Ask the kid over there in the emergency room." I pointed to Roanoke Memorial Hospital located adjacent to the park. "Emergency room?" No further discussion required. Mom was now firmly in my camp, and the discussion with Dad went much the better for it. She, like I, was fine with basketball, soccer and even football, but heaving an 8 ounce thinly covered rock at each other was no longer acceptable sport. As an adult I have absolutely no interest in baseball outside of the occasional minor league game that provides a wonderful venue in which to while away a summer evening. Its hard to beat the ambiance of hot dogs, peanuts, pretzels and cold beer while a game that is part ballet - part poker - part chess match, takes place on the well groomed field below. Sitting there amongst the great cross section of society, its easy to understand how baseball became such a uniquely wonderful American tradition - The national pastime if you're not counting checkers and politics. But how anyone could ever spend more than 27 seconds watching a televised broadcast, I'll never know. If you watch baseball on TV, you are either : A. So rich you have nothing else you need to do and your TV tuner is broken. Or B. So poor you can't afford to do anything else and the your TV tuner is broken. But I do enjoy watching our children play their little league games, and the other night we were treated to a great one. It was a "great one" because son George got a hit. Getting a hit might not seem like such a big deal, but in the first year of "Player Pitch", where the 8-10 year olds are pitching themselves, connecting with the ball is cause for celebration. In fact, "not getting hit" by the ball itself is a bit of a victory. Accuracy is being strived for, but it is hardly mastered. The teams generally score by players being walked to first base and then stealing the rest while the pitcher attempts to control his throws. The end result is a series of close plays being made between the catcher, who chases down the ball, and either the second or third baseman depending on where the runner happens to be. It makes for pretty good sport, but its not exactly the pastime as Mickey Mantle or Joe Dimaggio knew it. So the other night when George connected squarely with a rogue winner of a pitch, sending it into the green grass of the outfield, we were all ecstatic. "HOLY COW", were the first words out of my mouth - "RUN GEORGE RUN!!" George took off as fast as his little legs would carry him and made it easily to first. His coaches yelled their approval - Mom gushed a bit - his Grandparents beamed with pride... Dad thought scholarship. George managed to steal second and then third and then finally home, as the pitcher careened one off the top of the catchers helmet. It was close, but a pretty decent slide added to the score. The Final - SW Cardinals : 12, Team of Unknown Origin : 2. After the game George was beaming. He received several extra high fives from his team mates as he left the field. He was moderately giddy but he had a certain calm about him too. A few minutes later, with just he and I riding home alone together, I ask him how it felt to hit that ball. "It was the greatest moment of my life", came the response. George is a rather level headed 8 year old and not one for great swings of emotion. It was about the last thing I expected to hear. "The greatest moment of your life?", I queried. George paused several seconds. He finally responded. "Dad - it wasn't like I hit that ball. I mean it was like someone else did... It didn't seem like I was really paying attention... and then the next thing I know I can see the ball and the bat slowly coming to meet it, and then POP ! There it went... It was really strange - but it felt really, really good.... I smiled quietly in the front seat. I remembered the first time such a thing happened to me. At about his age, I was playing a friendly game of neighborhood softball with what were mostly older kids. I was standing dreamily out past first base somewhere short of where an outfielder might be when, CRACK!", one of the older kids laid heavily into a buttercup pitch served up just for him. I was counting clouds or sorting clovers with my toes or some such thing, when the sound of bat to ball brought me out of my stupor just in time to watch myself make a diving catch of a line drive that would have made Ozzie Smith proud. The other kids cheered wildly as I came up with the ball. All I could think was, "How in the world did that happen?" Several years later in a key game for our Sandlot football team I had an equally mysterious experience while going up to catch a pass that would enable us to get to the Championship game. Time had stood still as my body moved through the air not entirely under my own volition, and even before I hit the ground I knew that somehow, from somewhere in all the powers that rule the universe, I had just been given a very unique bit of assistance. My old football coach still talks about it to this day every time I see him. "How you caught that football Revercomb, I'll never know..." But I think I do. And I told George as much. "George, I'm not sure I can do a good job explaining it - but what you received tonight was a very special gift... a moment when, for reasons that you and I will probably never understand, everything lined up just right, and a window of sorts was opened somewhere... a window that allowed time and space to flow through in some manner that we don't experience everyday, or even ever for many of us. I myself can think of only 3 or 4 such experiences, and I count them among the most precious of my life... so I know what you mean when you say it was the most wonderful experience of yours..." George sat quietly for several moments. "Why do you think that happened Dad?" he finally asked. "Well son, I don't know", I replied. "But I think it has something to do with desiring something just the right amount - not too much and not too little... a balance of sorts that finds us in the perfect moment at the perfect time with just the right perspective... when our bodies somehow become a conveyor of Grace that allows the physical part of our nature to become the expression of something more..." I glanced in the rearview mirror at George who was staring out over the darkening landscape. "I think it has a lot to do with Trust"... I said. "Maybe so...", he replied. "I will never, ever forget it." "Neither will I...", I responded. We stayed up late together and raided the fridge after his shower. Baseballs not so bad.