by Glenn Stout
(From Boston Baseball May 2016)
(From Boston Baseball May 2016)
It is a balm, it is a salve, it can save.
This is what baseball does. When we need it most, when there is pain, or fear, or even just loneliness, there is baseball, always baseball.
April to October, it is the best friend on the other end of the phone, across the table, at the other end of the couch. It’s that letter in the mailbox, the email from the past, the text, the call from someone forgotten that says “Watcha doing? Wanna hang out? Why don’t ya come over? We can watch the game.”
When everything else is overwrought and overbearing, baseball is not. Baseball is quiet, even in the cheering. When the world is fast, when the clock spins too quickly and life careens out of control, baseball just unfolds. It lolls on the ground, warms up and plays catch. It steps out of the box, looks around, paces, shakes off a sign, knocks dirt from its shoes, adjusts its cap, claps its hand and spits, waves to the pen, checks the infielders, puts a hand up to call time, takes a deep breath, steps off and re-sets. And when the world is slow, when days and hours drag, baseball marks time, starts with infinity, jogs to position, plays pepper, shags flies, turns two, chases after fungoes, makes the lineup, throws through, goes around the horn, plays ball, bears down. It fills the scorebook, the line score, moving station to station, pitch by pitch, strikes and balls and interminable fouls, station to station, one base at a time, the lineup turning over, the innings adding up, the shadow moving across the diamond, 27 ticks to a side until it ends in a score, a result, a win or a loss and then, the instant it is tallied, baseball starts again. Tomorrow is the next starting pitcher and no matter what, the game starts out as a tie, the tally 0-0, and anything can happen.
It lives at night, in the air, on the dial, on cables’ upper channels, in black and white and color, and in the minds’ eye, memory, always glorious and green. It’s there in the morning, in the paper, on the screen, hidden in the box score, whispering from the crawl at the bottom of the screen.
Sometimes it stays up late, talking, shuffling cards, playing solitaire. It takes a nap, follows the sun, chases the seasons, stops for naps, stirs, then gets up for a sandwich. It lets you talk, allows attention to slip, puts up with conversation, with a kid on your lap, a dog at your feet, ice cream on your chin, with a warm beer, with sunburn, with the lawn being mowed, the grill firing up, the sun setting low and the fire flies flashing.
It pops cups in the stands, mouths out the anthem, catches the peanuts, and razzes the ump. It speaks Spanish on one side, Japanese on another, a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a slide and a scuffle, a catcall, a curse, a slur and a cheer.
It sits in the library, in yearbooks and guides, tablets and programs, newsprint and gamers, in clips and on cards, in a box in the basement, a shelf on the wall, a ball in the glove and a bat in the corner. Blood on the elbow, grass on the knee, dirt on your hands and gum on your cap. It smells like pine tar and popcorn, hot dogs and home, neatsfoot and leather, horsehide and dirt, fastballs and curves. It’s a sore arm, a stinger, a strawberry, or a scrape, a Charley horse or scar.
Hold it in your hand, it holds you right back and never lets go.
Glenn Stout is an author and editor. His website is www.glennstout.net