Thunderheads were building in the west, and the dogs were anxious. It didn't look like the game would be played. So we were happy to see the sky brighten as we drove up the rutted farm lane between the closed gas station and the picnic grounds and parked on the grass with the other SUVS and pickups.
We found a seat on the bleachers. We praised achievement and accepted failure, which is the nature of baseball, encouraging the disappointed. "Get 'em next time, Joe! Good effort, Schultzy! You can do it, Levi!"
We even cheered skilled plays by the boys from the town across the ridge. Magnanimity flows like maple syrup when the breeze is warm, and the boys are poised, and the parents are calm, and the storm has passed us by.
Finding a game on summer evenings where we grew up was a social activity. Folks carried lawn chairs in their trunks and took a ride to one of the small towns, villages really, where the ballfields were still central, a holdover from another century. There were leagues at every age, and it was a treat to watch a neighbor's son pitch one evening, and his grandfather the next.
Tonight, for a few hours, not much has changed. The ballfield has been there against the woods for a hundred years. The outfield ends where the cornfield begins. The backstop is still four poles and roll fencing. Everybody follows the rules, passed down unchanged from one generation to the next.
There is comfort in continuity.
We know we're home.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, al rights reserved
