Together Again
After a daily dish of morning Caribbean techno, which had included my son hopping around with a happy fingers pointed skyward – Grandma Combs-style – which had followed Puck begging for mercy from being tickled to death with the excuse, “The house is melting!”… we got on to the real part of the day. Things are always a little cranked when OLeif decides to work from home. Although this time, I have to confess, I don’t think he contributed to the volume factor.
Eggs.
Blech.
A person can only consume so many of them in back-to-back breakfasts. So I take my breaks. Puck, meanwhile, wasn’t exactly interested in his breakfast either, which included a pile of “walmonds” [almonds]. He was more busy hunting up his handheld opaque reddish rubber ball to toss around the linoleum. “Oh. I wish there was a detective in this town.” Two minutes later, ball discovered, he loped it past a sleeping kitten whom he had not before noticed. “Mama, look! That little kitten has such a patience!” He also tried hamming it up during his reading lesson by using “sign language” to tell me what each word meant. Then OLeif emerged from his library for slippers and tea. All he missed was the red velvet smoking jacket on the way out.
I knew today was going to work a little faster. We had to pick up Linnea-Irish for the game downtown by 3:30. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we processed the hours more efficiently. But again – attempted effort. And somehow, even with Puck sculpting his cheese on an African lion coaster during lunch and a white board demonstration of “good and evil” from OLeif to the young chap for disciplinary measures… we got through the scuffed-up front door on time.
So baseball, baseball, baseball.
Fanatically so, my friends.
Originating ever since the World Series, 2004, which for some absolutely unforgivably inexplicable reason I found myself walking through a completely deserted Dillards with Mom and Carrie during the final innings of Game 4, shaking my head in disappointed disappointment as the play-by-play crackled over the sound system… I’ll admit it can come off as a little… extreme. Whenever Carrie-Bri sort of turns to me over my stats sheets with one raised Keira Knightly eyebrow and the comment I know she’s going to say before she even says it… “That’s just a little weird, Collette…” I get it. But I also still get an idea of the balance, when I’ve crossed the line, how many nightly red-eyed hours in front of the television or radio I can stand… [Red from lack of sleep and allergies, mind. I think Bear has seen me cry twice. But that’s another thought….]
Anyway, Linnea-Irsh and I attended Game 6 of my season tonight. Just walking three blocks over is enough to stir the soup. Sort of a contagious energy and the sense that 45,000 fans are literally going to explode into something less tacky than the Hallelujah Chorus (sorry for that label, folks), but equally as epic. What can I say about a baseball town? We plaster players’ faces all over the city, like tiny Caesars erected on every light post.
There’s another world in there. A totally different globe teaming with life, the color red, and boxes stuffed with nachos and Asian cuisine. It’s… well, if you don’t understand or feel that kind of magical presence — standing in that simple universe of greatness — then I really can’t help you. I guess I’ve elaborated on this heat wave enough, and the loyalty of city and fans, for you to already understand that another sky-rocker of 107 would hardly detain the usual Sea of Red from enjoying another evening under the St. Louis stars. But there’s more going on in that ballpark than just hitting cowhide with white ash or maple sticks — or whatever.
It’s sort of like your own mini existential think tank. It’s almost overwhelming, really. Circled by 41,000 human beings. Like some elaborate fire ant palace network. So much humanity. That’s the thing about visiting the ballpark. You start thinking about things. Lives. Stories. Without being too hippie about it, that’s some heavy stuff, man. 41,000 dramas, tragedies, and victories wedged in around you sharing Coca-Cola and bacon-wrapped hot dogs.
And it’s not just the fans. It’s the players too. Their lives are night and day. One universe on the field, another with adopted brothers in the clubhouse, one more with their families at home, maybe a third if they live elsewhere in the off-season, especially if in another country and culture like Puerto Rico or the Dominican. Maybe lob in one more separate galaxy for unforgiving travel itineraries, the temptations of living the American spotlight, and even the flip-flopped internal clocks. Stack on top of that impossible jigsaw puzzle — charity events, dinners, autograph signings, interviews… all those things no one ever really wants to do again for the 3,118th time in seven seasons… You have to be tough to function on that kind of level. Who cares what kind of dough you rake in every game. It’s a difficult job.
I mean, face it, folks. The most celebrity the majority of us poor saps are going to experience is snagging a foul ball gone horribly wrong on some unsuspecting muggy Tuesday night. That may just be our greatest glory. And that’s probably a good thing. Most of us can’t handle anything more than that.
Granted — no life is more important than the next. I listened to my share of “Mr. Rogers” fuzzy PBS stations in the 1980’s. But I guess you might say I like this tapestry — all those neutrinos fastened together into something pretty fantastic and gruesome and miraculous, all together. But like I said, I’m Presbyterian. So I can milk that sort of elaboration — all day — if you’d let me.
So anyway. We had a good time – Linnea and I – both our overheated selves. Standing in line outside the gates fanning each other with tickets and silk paddle fan under full sun. Sitting in the autograph line, freezing our wrists with stray ice cubes. Which was worth it – Linnea obtained Barrett Browning’s autograph and then Joe Kelly’s – nervous Joe Kelly. I don’t think he was expecting a “thank you” from Linnea. “You’re welcome!” he grinned an half-relieved all-American kid grin.
By the way, I didn’t intend this redbird indoctrination of my little sister. It just sort of happened. Can I help it if she scored all eleven innings her score sheet would allow prior to the twelfth-inning-Puma-lead-off-walk-Joe-Kelly-pinch-hit-Matt-Carpenter-single-Raffy-RBI-single-walk-off? She did a pretty good job of it.
I was so proud!
By the way, if you really don’t want to hear anymore about baseball, well, just remember, no one’s forcing you to read this nonsense. I may be Presbyterian, but I still believe in free will. Within reason.