MUSINGS: Our ‘Field of Dreams’

By MATT FURY
matt@burnettcountysentinel.com

Eyes bloodshot, surrounded by dark bags and seared to near bone-dry by wind, dirt and sweat. The muscles in your back and shoulders tender to the touch, capable of emitting sharp pangs when asked to react quickly. Your stomach, a twisted knot of cramps, trying to unwind itself from 72 hours of corn dogs, nachos, three-egg omelettes and a healthy dose of barley soda.

But on your face, a smile.

‘Cause despite all the effects of recovering from a weekend amateur baseball tournament far from home, the sight of endless outfield greens, the sounds of fastballs popping against mitts and bats cracking out hits, the ease of wasting several hours on sun-lit bleachers, even the swagger of putting on the hometown jersey, they’re all images burned into your mind’s eye that just won’t go away.

Not to go off on a musing, but for those who know and love the game of baseball, there’s something both magical about being out there on the diamond, but at the same time, very normal and comforting.

I’m sure it’s the same for fanatics of any other sport where, when out there actually doing it, there’s a level of ease and relaxation those who don’t play can’t quite grasp.

Where else does a devout quarterback feel more at home than in the huddle or under center? Where else does a lightning-quick point guard feel more at ease than with the ball bouncing beneath his hand? When does a top-notch golfer exude more confidence than when the round’s fate lies with them? And certainly, where does an ace pitcher feel more confident than standing atop the mound staring in for the next sign?

Heck, it doesn’t really have anything to do with sports. Where does the seamstress prodigy shine most? Sitting at the sewing machine or poised with needle in hand, of course.

Unfortunately, or maybe just more realistically, the amateur baseball players in our tournament are far from the best of the best in our field (yes, pun intended). And no, after you’ve been battered around for a few innings or struck out three times already, you not as akin to feeling quite so confident.

But all we amateurs know this coming in and in the end, when it comes right down to it, we’re still playing ball. Even if you stink it up, what better place to be?

Any baseball fan loves the movie Bull Durham and after winning two out of three, there was talk among some Honkers on the long drive home of how wonderful it would be to simply be heading toward another ball park in some far-distant city.

Yes, after only three days of life on the road, the days of a minor leaguer seemed pretty appealing to us all. Romanticized or not, the prospect certainly looked better than driving back from Bruce and returning to a much more regulated schedule than, “We play at 6, be here by 5” requires.

Ahhh, three days of baseball.

All the livid tales of botched fielding plays, the excited recaps of doubles to the gap, the explicit details of a cohort’s rendezvous at the Firemen’s Ball. They’re all free game when talkin’ ball.

And of course, what it really comes down to is the good old fashioned camaraderie between the boys that, after a few days on the road and being forced to spend all hours in close proximity, naturally tends to become stronger.

Of course, when you’ve all been wearing your same pair of spandex undershorts during games, to the tavern and, in some cases, to bed, for days on end, “the boys” are about the only people that can stand to be near you.

But you don’t mind. ‘Cause they’re ball players. And in some slightly skewed, but mostly perfect way, so are you.

I think. Who knows, I’m only musing.