The agony and ecstasy of pursuing a passion
Before today, I couldn’t have told you what dreams tasted like. I could have told you what they smelled like. They smell of freshly mowed grass, sweat, oiled leather, dirt, stale beer, pine tar, and chewing tobacco. They sound like the crack of a wooden bat hitting a tightly-wound ball of string and leather, and the corresponding roar of the crowd as they cheer you round the horn.
They feel like the sun on your face, the spongy turf beneath your feet, and a brand-new uniform hugging you loosely. Of course, I’d always known what they would look like because I’d seen them every night in my dreams since I was seven. But until tonight, I never knew what they tasted like.
They smell of freshly mowed grass, sweat, oiled leather, dirt, stale beer, pine tar, and chewing tobacco.
When I got here, I didn’t really know what to expect. I mean, how could I? It’s a little like trying to imagine what Heaven would be like. What could your frame of reference possibly be? Television? The movies? I’d grown up watching the game on TV, of course, and going to the ballpark a few times every year with my Dad.
But there was really nothing to prepare me for walking out of that tunnel and feeling 40,000 pairs of eyes on you. That sea of humanity, ready to raise you up or devour you whole. The easy camaraderie of the players. The watchful eyes of the manager. The sheer terror of walking up to the plate for the first time. It was the subject of my dreams, but the reality of it escaped me, even as I was experiencing it.
But what do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams? When hard work, a bit of skill, and a whole truckload of luck conspire to put you in the running to achieve everything you ever wanted? You keep it to yourself. That’s what Dad would have said. He would have said it with a smile, but you knew he meant it. When the gods give you a gift, you don’t crow about, and you don’t question it. You simply keep it to yourself and hope it has the legs to carry you forward.
I can’t believe he never saw me play here. My God, but that man loved a ballpark. The sights and sounds of what he called the Cathedral of Dreams. If only he’d hung on just a little while longer, he’d have seen me play right here in the stadium he’d grown up in the shadow of.
He probably could have played himself here, once upon a time, but the war and a family pretty much squashed any chance of that happening. He worked and raised a family instead. Followed the box scores, read their exploits in the papers, and listened on the radio. It was to his only son that he passed on the dream of one day playing in The Show.
I’m seeing the ball better every time I get up, but no matter what, I’m still 0 for 24 — a big goose egg. I hit the ball hard last night, but I don’t know if it’s going to be enough to keep them from sending me down again. I think I’ve proven that I can play at this level, but at this point in the season, no one is interested in coaxing a rookie out of a minor slump.
They’d rather send me down and replace me with someone on a hot streak. It may be a child’s game, but it’s a man’s business. I’ve been in the racket long enough to know it’s not personal. It may be a team sport, but my individual performance affects not just the team, but every single person in the organization. We play with live ammo.
We play again this evening, and as I sit here in the locker room, listening to the guys carry on, I have the feeling of being at a crossroads. Either I break out of my slump and contribute all I am to this team, or I get sent down, never to be heard from again. Another lost soul who came so close to realizing their dreams, but who came up just a little short.
The difference between a .200 batter and a .300 batter is the world, and yet in a season, that’s just 50 hits or about two a week. Two more hits a week, and you get the brass ring, complete with first-class accommodations and a sneaker deal. Two less, and you get a job in an office somewhere, maybe a high school coaching gig, and some fine memories.
Ray Kinsella, channeling Shoeless Joe Jackson, once wrote, “I’ve heard that old men wake up and scratch itchy legs that have been dust for over 50 years. That was me. I’d wake up at night with the smell of the ballpark in my nose, the cool of the grass on my feet.”
What will I remember? Will it be a memory of the uncertainty of my youth after a long and eventful career? Or will it be a snapshot of a summer afternoon, a Polaroid of a moment in time, long, long ago? What will I have learned?
I’d wake up at night with the smell of the ballpark in my nose, the cool of the grass on my feet
What I have learned thus far is that dreams have no taste of their own, but take on the flavor of whatever is seasoning them in the moment. They can be almost sickeningly sweet, like honey on a fresh peach, or deeply bitter, like dry kale or black coffee. More often than not, they are somewhere in the middle, a bittersweet convergence of joy and pain, sorrow and ecstasy. They are not of themselves, but a shadow of the thing being cast.
They are a whisper, or a fragment of a song, that either becomes part of your origin story or, more often than not, a taste of what might have been. But as Tennyson said, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
I’m grateful for every opportunity I’ve been granted in my life, not the least of which was the love of a game. In a contest that accepts failure as an integral part of the game, the pursuit of a goal is often more meaningful than victory. To reach for the stars is more important than becoming one, and so I am grateful for even the opportunity to pursue a passion.
For better or worse, I am my father’s son.