back to patterns and back to rulesTop of the 9th--day nine--month nine--29th years. This time, this year, this game. Giamatti's cadence, my heart beats. Capturing this moment in time--I stop. As I recite GreenFields of the Mind, the crowd sounds fade, that's ok--I recite for my future--not for an audience, not for fame, no--instead, for hope--to translate the joy and sore clapping of 2015 when we won it all. That joy, this pain--is being human. The drive to win, the reality that one must lose for another to win. Oh, that is tied to the reality as bustling crowds spill out hungry for connections. Unaware of what this game offers, it's gift, it's curse--it's lesson in loss, patterns eclipsed by the bittersweet lessons--three games, three losses, goodbye postseason.
One team will win, the rest will lose--but what is loss?The leaves turn brown, they die away--but that is pattern that is this life. We learn we grow--we return to the start but are not the same. We grow.
Change adds up.Change irritates, like the sand in the oyster, allows the oyster to form a pearl. Too much too fast, who knows. But also like the Lion with the thorn, change offers relief. When what have is precious--we want to do no harm, but mend we will, we have no choice. Like this Earth on which we ride around our Solar System. Repair and mend, not toss away--like health or humanity--this is what we have, let us make it work. Returning to the sacred spot, the place that houses artifacts. My faith is such a part of me, the big G, the number 3, three outs, three umps, two fingers to the lips and then to the sky as a runner touches home, coming home. HOME--yes being at home, being A home, sheltering, protecting--those celebrations that only our closest family understand. Wanted to share Gehrig's gift, my favorite artifact. Lou, the original IronMan, Lou who gave his wife a bracelet of precious stones set in lapel pins--some awards, other served as keys to the park--that captured my heart when I saw with my dad, and later with my soon to be and his son. I missed seeing the Hall with my mom or my sisters. I'm the one who was most bit by the baseball bug--but for 16 years have insisted that the Hall has so much that there was something there for all. Young kids at the ballpark, I like to teach my game "where is the ball" -- we need fun of a game and challenge as we learn for ourselves. But we humans of the adult age, we owe these kids safe passage into grownup life. Baseball, yes it's a game of rules, of physics, of hope--played on grass, and dirt.
When in 2001 the towers fell in NYC, we stopped.This game paused for 7 days. When it restarted, it felt hollow, but needed like a meal by the living having said goodbye to their dead. These bites we took, we regained strength and continue ever changed. I have my routine with baseball and games--the sound has always triggered calm--like the sound of waves crashing at the beach--the patter of the baseball, the smell of sunscreen and popcorn, the sweep of the umps broom on the plate--this is summer.
So back to patterns and back to rules.The season ends, but we evolve. When something isn't working in a system, we institute change, we test and evaluate. This also lets us acclimate. Change isn't easy. In 2015 the rules did change--okay the MiLB rules did--Pace of the Game. Now a minor league game can fly by in under two hours. That's the Pace of the Game rules in action. If you love something enough, we do what we can to repair and mend it. Humanity is not a game that one side wins and another loses. Seeing baseball speed up the game--feels both right and a little off--just like when we first started naming our hurricanes after both genders, not just women. Change adds up. "How slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another." A.Bart Giamatti Baseball is hope, time, math, repetition and failure. It is life--a big messy thing. Wishing you hope and sending prayers.
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