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I’ve often put things off until the last minute. It occurs to me now there will literally be a last minute. There will be a last day, a last minute, a last second. Or will there be a vague fading away, the end hard to define, what with all the cheers and celebration, wondering: Did it end when he hit it, when he crossed home, or when they left the field and we poured into the street, again and for the last time ever here: Ecstatic?
***
Peace is never the hero. Peace seeks equality and a lack of aggression.
But peace is what I feel when I watch or I listen. There is enough relative equality that I need not feel either bully or victim. Games are close; series go either way. From the best to the worst, the figures aren’t that grand. From the best to the worst, there isn’t that much distance. Winner to loser: Maybe just one game. Maybe just one run, a homer in the bottom of the seventh let’s say, by a guy you feared too rightfully.
He probably made it up. My father used to tell me, “Of all the teams that missed the playoffs by just a single game, 85% of them had lost on opening day.” Truth or fiction, I know why he said it.
Peace can feel furthest when you’re closest to it. Close enough to touch it, no, it’s just beyond your fingertips. You can feel its heat. You try to let that comfort you. You try to let that take you through the Winter.
It was spontaneous, accidental even - to know me you might think I’d planned it. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know. He said, “Let’s check the schedule and see if there’s a game.” It was Spring. And there was: There was a game. And it was my team playing that day, in from the other side of the state, playing that day in the stadium where I saw my first game ever – minor league ball with my father in the Summer of ‘72. I hadn’t thought about it; hadn’t even remembered until.
Remember: Last year, something magical, something unexpected; underdogs flying – The Ultimate Victory. There is pride when I walk or swallow or breathe. There is winning, winning it all, and when I reminisce it’s like I’m dreaming only I’m awake. I’m awake, walking, swallowing, breathing. We won. We won, and you mattered. You shouted and it mattered; you spoke. You cheered: Over a hundred thousand strong at the park that night in Chicago.
Peace is never the hero. It can feel furthest when it’s closest. It’s at the plate, a narrow lead.
The count is in its favor.
***
Peace is never the hero. Peace seeks equality and a lack of aggression.
But peace is what I feel when I watch or I listen. There is enough relative equality that I need not feel either bully or victim. Games are close; series go either way. From the best to the worst, the figures aren’t that grand. From the best to the worst, there isn’t that much distance. Winner to loser: Maybe just one game. Maybe just one run, a homer in the bottom of the seventh let’s say, by a guy you feared too rightfully.
He probably made it up. My father used to tell me, “Of all the teams that missed the playoffs by just a single game, 85% of them had lost on opening day.” Truth or fiction, I know why he said it.
Peace can feel furthest when you’re closest to it. Close enough to touch it, no, it’s just beyond your fingertips. You can feel its heat. You try to let that comfort you. You try to let that take you through the Winter.
It was spontaneous, accidental even - to know me you might think I’d planned it. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know. He said, “Let’s check the schedule and see if there’s a game.” It was Spring. And there was: There was a game. And it was my team playing that day, in from the other side of the state, playing that day in the stadium where I saw my first game ever – minor league ball with my father in the Summer of ‘72. I hadn’t thought about it; hadn’t even remembered until.
Remember: Last year, something magical, something unexpected; underdogs flying – The Ultimate Victory. There is pride when I walk or swallow or breathe. There is winning, winning it all, and when I reminisce it’s like I’m dreaming only I’m awake. I’m awake, walking, swallowing, breathing. We won. We won, and you mattered. You shouted and it mattered; you spoke. You cheered: Over a hundred thousand strong at the park that night in Chicago.
Peace is never the hero. It can feel furthest when it’s closest. It’s at the plate, a narrow lead.
The count is in its favor.
