It was an unseasonably warm February afternoon when I took the first step toward rekindling the relationship.
It had been a long time, years really, since we’d been truly close. Breakups are always difficult, but this was more like a nagging back pain. You could try to ignore it, but damn, it just wouldn’t go away.
The first time we really connected was back when I was around five years old during a two-year stint living in Rhode Island. We got off to a bit of a rocky start, and I almost quit right then and there. To think, I could have been off the hook forever.
But no, it wasn’t to be. As it turned out, the game of baseball wasn’t letting me off that easy.
Despite the tenuous start, I continued to play as I got older. We moved back to Chicago, and sure enough, baseball came right along with me. I began little league play in the second grade, and the relationship began to blossom from there.
There were trials and tribulations, sure. After taking one on the pinky at the batting cages, I was afraid of the ball for more than a year. You would be too if you had to watch something knock your fingernail clean off. It was a traumatizing moment for seven-year-old me.
Still, baseball and I got past it. We always did. Eventually, I shook off the fear and was handed the luck of playing for a few dominant teams. In two different seasons (during which I admittedly contributed very little), I took home the championship trophy. Baseball was finally rewarding me for my troubles.
In sixth grade, as I officially became a middle schooler, I had my best season hitting leadoff for a good team. I played third base and, to my utter surprise, was pretty good at it. My confidence was growing by the day.
Then, all of a sudden, the game threw another curveball at me. I went into a prolonged hitting slump that lasted all the way into eighth grade. At a certain point, I couldn’t even call it a slump anymore. Baseball, it seemed, had finally dumped me for good.
I tried to rekindle the fire during my freshman year of high school, but lasted through just one team meeting before walking out for good. It didn’t seem worth the trouble anymore.
Somewhere along the way, I had also become an avid follower of Major League Baseball. More specifically, I had the misfortune of picking the Chicago Cubs as my team to worship. Thus, even with my playing days behind me, the game was still hanging around to simultaneously warm and break my heart.
With the year 2008 came high school graduation, as well as one last fling between baseball and me. The Cubs looked unbeatable throughout the summer, winning 97 games and prompting me to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was the year.
They played the Dodgers in the Divisional round just as I was getting acclimated to my freshman year at the University. To no one’s surprise, they were swept. The best regular season in years, down the drain just like that.
It was then that baseball and I really began our slow descent into emptiness. My playing days were far behind me, and following the professional game seemed an exercise in futility. We were, as the song by U2 goes, running to a standstill.
Which brings us back to that crisp Monday morning about a week ago. I was standing on the field at PK Park, holding a microphone out as Oregon baseball coach George Horton discussed the bright future of his 2011 squad. You could almost see the fuse light up in Horton’s eyes as he spoke about his excitement regarding the season.
About midway through the interview, dark clouds crept over the field. The smell of rain was in the air and, sure enough, a light mist began to fall. It was one of those showers that you can almost sense as it descends around you. As quickly as it came, it left. The sun could still be seen shining off in the distance.
The whole scene brought me through a lifetime of memories. In our fifteen-year relationship, baseball and I have been through countless rainstorms. Some were light as a feather; others were damn near apocalyptic. Specifically, I recall basking in the downpour with one of my best friends during a delay at Wrigley Field. While other fans fled for shelter, we made pyramids with beer cups and attempted (unsuccessfully) to engage the players in the dugout.
Like always, the rain abated. The game went on. It always does.
Perhaps that is why I was so moved by the seemingly innocuous moment at PK Park. The rain that day reminded me of everything baseball and I have been through. The ups and the downs — the elation and the grief. That’s baseball in a nutshell.
It was an unseasonably warm February afternoon when I realized that baseball and I will never truly break up.
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Malee: Romance at Wrigley Field
Daily Emerald
February 15, 2011
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