A Season Begins In A Moment
January:
Sure I slip it in. I slip it in here or there, a hint, a reference in the hope that someone gives it back to me; that someone speaks the language. It’s little things, small ones, but if someone’s hungry or into it like I am, they’ll pick it up. And that’s just how it happened, I can’t even recall the introduction, the how of how it starts, but he and I lean together on the northeast corner of this oversized table and the rest of the group just fades away. There’s no one else there for a little while as he walks me back along the field, the shore of his memories and thirsty as I am I stop to drink. It’s me and him one January night in California, a business dinner that shrinks to a diamond, and I understand perfectly when he says The green of it calms me. He’s an Astros fan, Ryan, sure, but his favorite was Terry Poole. Terry Poole he tells me, bats left, throws right. Was something in the playoffs, something special, and I’ve no memory of Terry Poole myself but I see him. And I wonder if Terry Poole is even alive, knowing he should be, and if he might have any idea how he’s marked the boy inside this man beside me, a baseball man he says: Bats left, throws right.
February:
Sometimes I don’t even notice but this time it’s like I’m totally waiting for it. I mean, sometimes I don’t even, you know, it’s like I’m not even into it until, well, I mean it’s going before I’m, well, motivated. But this time, I guess, you know, I’ve been feeling kind of cheated. Well, you know, I just thought it was going to last – longer than it did, you know. I really thought we were going to make it... Anyhow, this is new. Or will be. Or you know, not new but, again. This will be again, and well, you know, it’s February and it feels like Spring and you know what they say about hope.
March:
March, yes. I’m asking that of time. March. Hurry. I don’t mean to will away the transition I tend to like to linger in. But I want it badly enough that I head south for a few days, just enough to taste it. And I’m sitting high in little bleachers behind an old man from Detroit and we’re talking like two friends, prophesizing/reminiscing where memories are not personal ones exactly and he is not old and I am not younger and there is no gender nor any difference at all between us except perhaps our varying loyalty to one particular team. But he is so lovely that he turns my loyalty flexible and his team wasn’t playing that day but here I am now, rooting for them.
April:
Sure I slip it in. I slip it in here or there, a hint, a reference in the hope that someone gives it back to me; that someone speaks the language. It’s little things, small ones, but if someone’s hungry or into it like I am, they’ll pick it up. And that’s just how it happened, I can’t even recall the introduction, the how of how it starts, but he and I lean together on the northeast corner of this oversized table and the rest of the group just fades away. There’s no one else there for a little while as he walks me back along the field, the shore of his memories and thirsty as I am I stop to drink. It’s me and him one January night in California, a business dinner that shrinks to a diamond, and I understand perfectly when he says The green of it calms me. He’s an Astros fan, Ryan, sure, but his favorite was Terry Poole. Terry Poole he tells me, bats left, throws right. Was something in the playoffs, something special, and I’ve no memory of Terry Poole myself but I see him. And I wonder if Terry Poole is even alive, knowing he should be, and if he might have any idea how he’s marked the boy inside this man beside me, a baseball man he says: Bats left, throws right.
February:
Sometimes I don’t even notice but this time it’s like I’m totally waiting for it. I mean, sometimes I don’t even, you know, it’s like I’m not even into it until, well, I mean it’s going before I’m, well, motivated. But this time, I guess, you know, I’ve been feeling kind of cheated. Well, you know, I just thought it was going to last – longer than it did, you know. I really thought we were going to make it... Anyhow, this is new. Or will be. Or you know, not new but, again. This will be again, and well, you know, it’s February and it feels like Spring and you know what they say about hope.
March:
March, yes. I’m asking that of time. March. Hurry. I don’t mean to will away the transition I tend to like to linger in. But I want it badly enough that I head south for a few days, just enough to taste it. And I’m sitting high in little bleachers behind an old man from Detroit and we’re talking like two friends, prophesizing/reminiscing where memories are not personal ones exactly and he is not old and I am not younger and there is no gender nor any difference at all between us except perhaps our varying loyalty to one particular team. But he is so lovely that he turns my loyalty flexible and his team wasn’t playing that day but here I am now, rooting for them.
April:
