the Summer of twenty-ten (part VII) - the antedote

The Game.

Poets have said it better than I... it is eternal. It is simplicity itself. It is life. It is the best in us, it is the worst in us. It is green grass, blue skies - it is mud and rain.
It is pageantry and the star-spangled banner. It is a millionaire's game. It is a child's game.
It is not, any more, the national pastime. It is not a designated hitter. It is not Dodger blue, and it is not leaving in the top of the seventh. It is not booing your own. It is not the most expensive seat. It is not the same as having a picnic with a show going on in front of you.
For me, it is the romance: Fathers and sons (mothers, daughters, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandfathers, grandmothers) enjoying the game, telling stories, having a catch. It is seeing your kid put a ball in the pocket of his glove, wrap it with a rubber band and stick it under his mattress. It is sportsmanship (and sportswomanship).

It is best friends from kindergarten, all grown up, brought together again by the baseball gods to stand for the anthem.

It is pulling up to a farmstand and finding a cart of balls. It is watching the team win, turning off the television, and passing gently away into that good night. (Good night, Grandad. ♥)

It is Mike Ivey hitting in the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, on a Friday night against the Dodgers at the 'Stick. It is a frozen chocolate malt blowing off your wooden spoon in swirling winds. It is the record that breaks. It's all that history. It is brothers sharing the outfield. It is old players coaching newer ones. It is the legends.

Mays

Cepeda

McCovey

Marichal

It's the stories: the ones that will break your heart, and those that cause your spirit to soar.

It really is the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd. It is cheering for the home team, 40,000 orange rally rags waving in unison. It is the remembering of glory and heartbreak and falling in love with the team. It is the chess game strategy. It is the tragedy of the loss. Yes, it is even a bad call at the plate.

photo courtesy of Google images

It is clever, charming, beloved broadcasters.

It is wearing orange on Fridays. It is hating the Dodgers. It is not caring much about the Series unless Your Team is in it. It is crying for joy when Your Team makes it to the Series.
It is not life or death. It is not more important than loved ones lost, or sick, or hurt. But it is a balm against those things. It is a sweet distraction. It is a reprise from the pain. And sometimes it can even be the antidote for the grief, easing it enough to snap the stress and hurt and anger and make all of those things less severe, helping you to go on.