Up to Bat

Last night I met up with two friends I don't see nearly enough given our schedules, where we live, and general life busyness.  The three of us used to work together, about a million years ago.  We bonded quickly way back then, as you sometimes do when placed in those virtually right out of college first office jobs, the ones that are tedious and rather lousy, ones you wouldn't go back to if they begged you, but that yield some of the greatest first "adult world" friends you might ever be lucky enough to have.

We spent the evening swapping stories and catching up on the good and the not so good developments in our lives.  When the three of us left the restaurant and parted ways I was struck again, as I often am, at how wonderfully wild and perfect, yet utterly ridiculous this life can be for each and every one of us.  Lately, I've felt that for each personal victory I've achieved - no matter how lofty or how inconsequential - I've watched another one of my battles - again be them big or small - be lost.  We all have moments, goals, dreams that are great and sweeping, and it truly matters which way the pendulum falls.  And then we have others, that in the grand scheme of things, don't carry nearly as much weight or heft.  Choosing your battles, as it were.

People say that baseball is a metaphor for life.  I've recently come to agree with this expression rather adamantly.  Because the thing of it is, we're up to bat each and every time, aren't we?  We may have the support of a team, a great coach, but in the end we're the ones who step up to the plate, alone and ready to swing.  Sure we can watch the tapes, study the pitcher, do our best to prepare, but in the end, none of us can predict the moments we're going to hit a grand slam.  Or strike out.  In a strange way it helps me to remember this, in both my triumphs and my failures.  It's good perspective.  My choices, my decisions are half chance.  So are everybody else's. 

Last week, I finished Chad Harbach's The Art of Fielding.  I am not giving anything away when I tell you the novel centers around baseball, which seems to be a common theme in my life these days.  (It is June in Red Sox Nation after all.)  As the story came to its inevitable, ultimate conclusion, I was struck by a passage in the book, one that reminded me again of how important it can be to try and count my successes and my disappointments one at a time. 

We swing and we miss.  Or.  We swing and we run like hell toward first.  Maybe, on our really good days, we even steal second.    

The ball bore through the morning mist on what seemed like a true path.  The closer it got the more Henry expected it to veer off course, but halfway there it looked good, and three quarters of the way it looked better.  One time.

The shovel head rang like a struck bell, continued to quiver after the sound was gone.  Contango howled as if trying to match the pitch.  The ball dropped straight to the infield dust.  The feeling that ripped through Henry was better than that magic IV he'd been served in the Comstock hospital, better than anything he'd felt on a baseball field before.  A half second later the feeling was gone.  He'd made one perfect throw.  Now what?

Schwartz bent down gingerly, reached into the bucket.  "Just kidding," he said.  "I've got one more."

Henry nodded, dropped into his crouch.  The ball came off the bat.

-The Art of Fielding-