Click images for desktop size: "Autumn" by Billy Dagwood One night the disciple woke up crying.
The Master heard him and went to him, asking, "why do you cry?"
The disciple, between sobs, answered, "I had a dream."
"Was it a bad dream?" the Master asked.
The disciple said, "No," and continued to weep.
"Was it a nightmare?"
"No," and struggling the disciple said, "I had the sweetest dream imaginable. It was wonderful."
"Then why do you cry?" the Master asked confused.
"Because I know it will never come true."

~ A Bittersweet Life

I've been getting deluged with calls, emails and visits asking me to play baseball this spring. I want to play. Its been almost a year since I last played.
For me baseball has been the poetry that made life seem true.
I could only play football through college, and my body wore out.
I've always surfed but surfing is a solitary sport best for self indulgence and private joy. You share it with your friends, not with the world.
But baseball. I've played it since I was 7. I've played in leagues, in sandlots. I played in two college world series in front of 50 thousand (pre-ESPN).
I've played in Korea, Japan. I was in a league in Europe playing against the Spanish, the Italians, even the French and Germans.
I played in the Dominican Republic and my teammates used gloves that were craftily constructed folded detergent boxes.
And it never mattered if I was wearing a uniform or whether the game would decide the championship, or if I was in a T-Shirt and jeans and teams just wanted to show off and impress the girls.
I played in Africa, in the desert where biota bags stood in for bases, in Thailand where the sweat poured into your eyes even if you just stood in the dugout.
If you ever played the game you'd know this: Every time you step on a baseball field you step onto all the baseball fields that ever were.
When your teammate climbs a ladder to snag a frozen rope that should have been a base hit its the same as having Don Kessinger climb that ladder.
When the pitcher glares at you its the face of Sandy Koufax, Bob Gibson and Don Larsen glowering at you wanting to take the bat out of your hand.
And no matter how many people were in the stands or if there were actually stands there you would always feel the crowd as the ball came at you tight inside on a 2 and 2 count.
And somehow you're always 12 years old and dreaming about the majors and how great it must be to have to play baseball as your job. Your JOB!
On this romantic day I have to say goodbye to that. It has to be a memory.
Last August I went to a pick up game try out. I was terrible. I couldn't throw. Its only gotten worse.
Last year I played in a league in Texas. It was the first time in my life that I'd ever pitched. I had a 7-1 record and a no hitter. That's the thing about baseball, you never forget stuff like that. You can always relive it, because its always the same game.

Click images for desktop size: "Blue Flower" by Ivory Ocean My life was awful then but I still played every week. practiced and took my dog to the games.
Just like always I savored every pitch, every crack of the bat, every glower, every expression. The sun was always shining bright, the bases were always loaded two away and the count was always 3 and 2.
It's always just that way. Always.
It was my last season.
I bought a ball to work with me today. Last year I painted a batters box on the fence.
I walked the 66 feet and turned and fired. My pitch was 4 feet over the top of the box and the pain in my arm was excruciating.
I tried playing some version of pepper with my puppy. I could still dip and scoop and I started to have glimmers of hope.
I whipped the ball into the fence and watched it roll in and bit back the scream as acid etched my arm from shoulder to elbow.
Everybody safe on the slow roller.
Its over.
Happy Valentine's Day Baseball. You gave me more than I could ever give you.

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