Scattered, Smothered and Lined Into the Gap

Too many thoughts roaming around in my head these days to actually blog effectively. But I'll give it a shot right now. Not that anyone's really reading this site regularly anymore. I think most of the LJ kidz have run away, which is, yknow, sad.

I spent the morning doing adult-type new homeowner stuff that turned out to be a lot more productive than I thought it'd be at the outset. Things are actually starting to come together and I think Nena and I are actually going to pull this thing off. We're even getting volunteers to help us paint the weekend of July 9th.

The incentive for people to help us is that if we manage to get things done on schedule and without burning ourselves out- we're totally going to have a party after the wedding to christen the new house. . .

However, after a morning of adult stuff, I really needed to hit the batting cages.

I love baseball. Growing up there was no better way to spend a day than to play a pickup game in the wannabe field in front of my house. We weren't terribly good at the game and our field had more tricks and slopes than the Juicebox down in Houston. But damn did we have fun.

Growing up as a Cubs fan, I've seen the power baseball can have for bringing a group together- for creating community. But until today I'd forgotten the power that the sport has for bringing joy. There's joy in this game, a joy that is all too often forgotten until you spend an afternoon at the batting cages.

The local batting cages are out at Clinton Lake and standing into the batter's box, you understood why the park district had placed them out here. The lake provided a slight breeze that came in off of the third base line and the sun hit my shoulders lightly as the smell of the lake floated through the air. Standing out there I could almost smell the hot dogs and hear the beer vendors around me. The only thing present to wake me from my baseball fantasy was the sound of the PD supplied aluminum bats.

*ping*

I don't do it all that often. Maybe once a year, twice at most. I really should go more often and maybe I will now that I'm going to be living so close to Clinton Lake after next month. Hitting clear my head, standing in the batter's box it's just me and the pitcher. Perhaps that's what draws me to the batting cages- the sensory experience involved in taking a baseball deep. When you go yard, everything lines up just right. The contact sounds perfect, the vibrations that wrack your arms and back feel perfect, it's as if the ball is being lifted off your bat effortlessly. Amazing, just am amazing. It's pure synesthetic joy.

I dragged Ulli out with me today, thinking that it'd be criminal for her to have never hit a baseball in her year in the U.S. After a quick lesson in stance and technique I let Ulli have at the slow pitch softball machine. About ten pitches in she managed to get the hang of it, and by the end of the afternoon she was absolutely in love with the whole thing. She'd tapped into the joy of hitting a baseball.

We alternated rounds and while Ulli wouldn't have stayed in the lineup after today's performance, I hit for average today, sending a steady stream of hard grounders up the third base line. I managed to pull a decent number of balls as well and even launched a few that made Ulli gasp.

Yeah, I went yard.

After seeing me hit those few longballs, Ulli noticed how different a homer sounded from the other contact I made. "Do they feel better to hit?" she asked. After hearing my answer, Ulli made me promise to bring her back next week. She's going to go yard if it kills her, methinks.

While we were out there, a son showed up with his father in tow. Junior was great to watch. A tiny little thing of a ballplayer standing in there with his brand new metallic blue Easton. A tiny little thing facing the big, scary machine with devil horns on it. A tiny little thing with beautiful mechanics hitting with such joy as to remind me why I was here- this was fun. Baseball is fun.

Dad would stand in when Junior grew weary from taking cut after cut and in him I saw the same joy, the same exhilaration writ large. Red tshirt and khaki shorts Dad took his cuts, rippling his tanned calves and flexing his everyman biceps. Dad knew the joy of hitting the longball and by all accounts he had taught his son what there was to know about it.

On the way back to Arturo, I stopped to talk to Dad a bit. We'd both worn our Cubs caps to the cage today and we'd instantly bonded. We talked about the season, the impending Cardinals matchup that we, the expats, we lucky enough to be able to watch on ESPN2 tonight and were generally happy to have another believer around to talk about it with. Baseball is about community.

Today is Drieg's birthday. His birthday is special because it always falls a few days after the solstice, reminding me that summer is really here. Part of summer for me is baseball. The joy of hitting a baseball, the joy of watching my Cubbies defeat the odds and actually win a game. Yeah. . .I don't know how to finish this post. I've tried four different ways, so maybe there is no perfect answer, there is only the acknowledgment that we should all take time out of our schedules and make contact with a baseball; no matter how bad we think we are at it.