For someone always warning about
the dangers of getting stuck in the past, I sure do like walking to the edge
and sticking a toe in. I did it again
yesterday picking up Chinese takeout.
“As You Like It” is a two-bounce
foul ball away from the baseball field at Morton West, on Harlem Avenue. Ask Clare how she became a baseball fan, and
she’ll point to watching Frank Thomas on TV.
I think watching the Mustangs play had something to do with it, too.
We’d sit in the stands to catch a
few innings before going to pick up Michele from the train. God, how that girl loved to chase after foul
balls that didn’t land in traffic on Harlem.
(The school got around to installing netting a few years ago.) Happiness for an eight-year old was winning
the race to the ball and tossing it back to the ump. Well, that and having her father pitch endless
BP.
The field yesterday stood empty in
the early evening sun of a cloud-free Saturday; the outfield flags were all
pointing in the direction of home plate courtesy of a stiff breeze out of the
northeast. It was just the kind of
breeze that chased after me in softball.
If I had the car windows down more, maybe I would’ve heard the echo of cheers
from those games long ago. I’d like to
think so.
Clare graduated Morton ten Junes
ago, around the same time her onetime classmate Ryan was drafted by the Angels;
he was a year ahead of her in class.
Ryan used control more than power to get noticed, and he made it as far
as high A. I could imagine him on that
mound, pitching and hoping. Baseball
comes wrapped up in hopes, along with dreams.
Ballgames generate memories;
ballfields hold them. You just have to
look and listen.
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