For Everything There Is a Season

The curtain closed on baseball’s regular season Sunday. If my team will not be continuing to the postseason, there is always a tinge of sadness as the final out is recorded. Pitchers and catchers won’t report to Spring Training until February, and Opening Day is in early April.

I will miss the thrill of the pennant races, the tension of a close game in the late innings, and the excitement of a big rally. More than those, however, I will miss the rhythm of the game. There is something comforting about listening to the middle innings of a game in June. Or watching on television the first pitch on a Sunday afternoon in mid summer. Falling asleep to the sounds of the announcers wrapping up the postgame show with the out-of-town scoreboard.

Baseball evokes memories of my childhood, and I had a very good childhood. From March to October, baseball dominated my days (and nights). Every evening after dinner, my father and I would play catch in the backyard. I would ride my bike to the park on the corner for my Little League games. Soothing voices from the radio--occasionally punctuated by the roar of the crowd--would lull me to sleep. I spent every dime on baseball cards.

Baseball echoes the rhythm of life. The innings pass with the regularity of sun and moon. The players come and go as friends appear in and disappear from our lives. Some things seem eternal, such as the announcer who has been with the club for more than 50 years, or the bright blue seats and green grass of the stadium. We hope those will never disappear, but, like a parent or spouse, they may someday pass into memory.

Other sports are a diversion, something to enjoy for a few hours at a time. Baseball has its own sense of time. It is a continuum. One game runs into the next, one season into another. Baseball isn’t like life, it is life.

For those of you who have teams in the playoffs, I say first, bite me. Second, enjoy. In a few days I’ll be able to join you and appreciate the climax of the baseball year. For now, I’m going to sulk a little bit more while my boys clean out their lockers and go home.

More Miscellany

It has been a long week. I look forward to sleeping in tomorrow.

I have come to the sad realization that Jessica Alba is too young for me.

Plus, I'm way too hot, Lefty.

I already have a busy October planned. On October 1, I have jury duty. On the 10th, I am scheduled to fly to Atlanta for a small seminar with one of the top people in my field. That will be a lot of fun, especially since some of my favorite colleagues will also attend.

I am a little afraid of Atlanta, though. I’ve heard it is a scary place full of mountain trolls and Piggly Wigglys.

Try the Mountain Troll Chitlins.

Did you know that I lived in Hawaii for 6 years?

Baseball is one of those games that interjects the highest highs and the lowest lows into your life. From inning to inning--let alone throughout an entire season--your team can go from being on top of the world to the pit of despair. Hope is eternally kindled, but easily dashed. That is especially true during the pennant race and postseason.

My particular team has had a string of disasters just when it seemed as if they were making a move. One of the late inning pitchers, who had come in to dominate opposing hitters for nearly two years, suddenly lost it. He was giving up clutch home runs almost every time out, something like 6 out of his last 7 appearances. There is no real chance to make the playoffs.

I look forward only to a long winter full of regret.

Is it just me, or does the sun look a lot more menacing lately?

The Good Stuff

A few things that make life worth living:

• real whipped cream
• Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin books
• baseball (And I don’t mean money-grubbing, steroid-stoked Major League baseball, but baseball. You know, playing catch with a ball that fits the human hand perfectly. The smack of the ball into leather. The crack of ball against wooden bat. The crunch of dirt beneath spikes. What W. P. Kinsella calls “the thrill of the grass.” Winning the World Series in the back yard with your best friend as your catcher. Chasing down a fly ball in the gap. Playing catch with your son beneath a deep blue sky in the early days of Spring. That baseball.)
• Mrs. Lefty’s meatloaf.
• sheer silence
• beer (duh)
• the cool side of the pillow
• the shade of my olive tree
• that thing that Mrs. Lefty does (for me to know and you never to find out)
• buttermilk pancakes

Note to Self

Tim McCarver has no idea what he's talking about.

I think you know what I mean.

P.S. I'm still out of the office with this damn back pain. Regular posts will resume soon.

Living the Real Life

The first thing, boys and girls, is that I’m leaving tomorrow for a business meeting through the weekend. I may surprise you and check in while I’m away, so behave.

I was thinking today about my ideal life. If I could do anything--live anywhere, have any job--what would I do?

Here’s my answer: I’d move into a small place in my hometown, and then I’d make a living writing fiction while coaching my high school’s JV baseball team and freshman basketball team on the side.

I have always wanted to write. And I have always had it in my head that I would. Reading a novel or well-written nonfiction is a sacred act. I want to do what others have done for me.

Coaching is teaching, especially when it involves younger players. It is also a way of building something. In this case, coaching the first- and second-year kids is about building an individual team, but also a program. I want to be a part of that, to carry on the tradition, the respect for doing things the right way, for playing the game the right way, that our freshman basketball coach passed on to us.

When Mrs. Lefty and I take walks, we sometimes pass by a field where older kids are playing baseball. The other day, I was staring out across the grass, watching them field grounders and work on their bunting, and my wife said to me, “You miss it, don’t you?”

She’s right. Whenever we walk by, my feet get all jittery and I just want to hop the fence and race out to chase down fly balls, and whack an outside pitch the other way, and smell that wonderful combination of dirt and leather and grass.

I want to be out there talking to some kid about moving his feet to get in front of a ball, or reminding a catcher he’s got to anticipate that curve ball will be in the dirt. I want to throw soft toss to that one guy who always stays after practice for extra work, just feeding him ball after ball until his arms fall off.

So why isn’t that what I’m doing now?

Good question. An important part of the answer has to do with stability. I have a good job with excellent benefits. My kids are practically all teenagers. Mrs. Lefty would go crazy if she had to live that close to her in-laws.

One reason I do what I do now instead of that dream is that I have made other choices. Once you’ve got kids, you can’t just run off and do something else for a while, especially if it may not pay the bills. Once you’re married, you’ve got someone else’s needs to worry about.

And my job includes a lot of those elements I want in my life. I do a lot of writing--some is fairly creative, and some is more technical. I am required to do some teaching. I am particularly effective in that role, and it is one element of my job I enjoy. I have an important part in building this company.

So even if I am not living in that little house in my hometown and coaching and writing for a living, I’m doing all right. I’m a happy man. I’m doing things I believe are important.

Except this meeting I’m going to the rest of this week. That just plain sucks. And it isn’t held in some cushy resort town, but in a place that will be hot and miserable.

Drink a few extra beers for me, okay?

Good Pitching Beats Good Hitting

EDITOR’S NOTE: Lefty’s usual brilliance has taken an unexpected leave of absence. Therefore, Mr. Lefty will not be producing a blog post today about the superiority of good pitching. Maybe next week. Maybe never.

Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit.

I've Got a Question for You

Which is more important to a great baseball team, pitching and defense, or offense?

Giving My Wife a Good Ribbing

My wife is back in town, her mother is doing better, and I have clean underwear again. All is well in the world. Except...

My wife was sitting on the floor in front of the couch doing her cross-stitch while we watched the baseball game. (Thank heavens for a woman who loves baseball!) She turned to push herself up and made a terrible shrieking noise--obvious pain.

It was still so bad the next day that she went to the doctor for help. They took x-rays and, wouldn’t you know it, she had dislocated a rib. By getting up off the floor. Who knew you could dislocate a rib? That’s like dislocating your head. Or your butt. A rib?

First, she goes to the hospital for high blood pressure. Then her mother has a stroke. Now a dislocated rib. What’s next?

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that question.