Remarkable, Exceptional, Baseball

Never later than the third inning is when Alex Gordon’s uniform will have its ochre-green lightning bolt emblazoned from shoulder to knee.  Sometimes the streak is accompanied by patches of dirt made mud from the sweat on his back as he slides spikes-up into second.  In some way, everyone who every wore a baseball glove or a uniform, even if it was only a t-shirt and cap, wants to leave the game with his jersey & pants streaked with the soil and grass stains from the field of play.

Of course, roaming the outfield grasses of major league ball parks is the epitome.  Alex can slide through the grass and onto the warning track as he dives to steal a certain double from an overly optimistic opponent.  Or he might leap high against the padded wall to let the webbing in his mitt make a home run go into the books as a simple out.  The stains from those plays are a testament to prowess but there really isn’t anything like the taste of the dirt that surrounds home plate.

For the player who is fleet of foot and has just earned a walk, the next batter's long hit into the gap in right-center field is the answer to a prayer.  If he judges it right he can sprint to second, around third and bore in on the pentagon that is home plate.  He knows the right fielder has a strong, accurate arm.  The race is for the plate where the catcher is blocking as much of the path as he can with his mitt positioned to make the quickest tag.  Sliding in head first and reaching a hand out to touch the plate just under the throw is a baseballer’s dream.  Just as his chest and belly hit, dirt begins to fly, the chalk from the baselines and batter’s box mixes and the taste will be bitter or sweet – determined by the umpire’s cry.  Even better, no matter the call, is wearing the dirt stains of having tried.

Baseball moves at a pedestrian pace.  For the aficionado there are dozens of details happening every second – shifting the defense, calling the pitch, giving signs to the batter, stealing signs by the runner, bluffing a move, and, of course, adjusting one’s equipment or expectorating a little saliva.  But the game moves slow enough that when there is exemplary effort, everyone can see it; everyone can empathize with the player; everyone wants to feel the sense of success.  Baseball has enough lore accumulated to never need another game but in every game there is a bit of magic.

There is a word in English that came from old Germanic that perfectly describes the magical time of day when lots of baseball is played, the gloaming.   After watching a day game on Sunday and sitting close to where Alex Gordon plays the field, we watched a very different sort of game on Monday just at the time of the gloaming.  Sunlight was yielding its command of the skies while the lights around the fields of play began their chirping and buzzing as they warmed up to full light so the games carried on.  Our team was called the Exceptionals.  So was the other team.  The only difference between the teams was the color of their shirts, gold or purple.  Magic was happening just as the light of the sun gave way to a different glow.

The players in this game were all exceptional.  Every age from small to adult played.  Everyone batted and everyone took up a position in the field to capture the ball after each batter hit it.  Every player had some type of physical or developmental challenge but none of those challenges were sufficient to stifle the desire to play ball.  Every player had caring aides, teammates, coaches and fans who supported them in their quest to be baseball players.

The yellow ball was placed on the tee by the catcher, wheel chair bound but abounding with the spirit of all catchers who want to call a good game for their teams.  Every batter got a hit and ran the bases guided by hands from the  unexceptionals who most of us are.  Balls were fielded and tossed or handed to the pitcher who handed or tossed them to the catcher to be placed on the tee.  Every player who ran the bases reached ecstatic joy – wide smiles, giggling laughs, skipping, twirling and sliding, yes sliding, into home base.  One young man in a wheel chair whose limbs moved at the command of unseen forces thrust himself out of the chair, made his chest and belly hit the ground so he could taste the chalk and dust as he slid head first into home!

After the game, I saw their lightning bolts of dirt and grass stains running from shoulder through the team name, Exceptionals, and down to the knees skinned in ordinary play.  Joy abounded, smiles astounded and the streaks of happy tears marked the faces of folks who love these Exceptionals.

--td