Tuesday, April 11, 2006

The Green Fields of the Mind

Some people like to knock The Red Sox around, and I have no problem with that, sports being rooted in rivalry as they are. I was in Fenway just once, in May of 1991. Sox played Seattle, and we sat there through the Golden Hour, my favorite time of day. The warm light on those blue and red seats, and everything looked just magical. I have a photograph of the rows of empty stadium seats somewhere; today I searched for it in vain.

I am not an avid sports lover, but I do have a great admiration for athletes. Partly, it's a respect born of my own lack of agility in grade and high school. It's an odd fact, as I was a very physically precocious small child. I walked early, rode my unembellished bike at three, ran roughshod with the boys, lived in trees most of the time, and you couldn't get me out of the water. The clumsiness that eventually weighed me down was probably a combination of the fact that I grew too rapidly (nerve endings and muscle mass have to be able to keep up with the bones - a gangly kid to say the least), and was soon yoked with depression. So, there is the love I have for things that I am not, and a love of the "masculine." Combine these with a natural inclination to love all things aesthetic. Grace and motion and the pure physicality of humanness, what could be more lovely?

In any case, I really like to go to baseball games. Maybe it's the ease of it - let's face it, they are slow moving, and there's plenty of time for conversation. Maybe it's being out of doors in the temperate air. Or maybe it's really just all about the hot dogs.

Here's an essay by A. Bartlett Giametti, American lawyer, baseball commissioner, and President of Yale University, 1938-1989

The Green Fields of the Mind

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.

Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn't this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about it. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy. I was counting on the game's deep patterns, three strikes, three outs, three times three innings, and its deepest impulse, to go out and back, to leave and to return home, to set the order of the day and to organize the daylight. I wrote a few things this last summer, this summer that did not last, nothing grand but some things, and yet that work was just camouflage. The real activity was done with the radio--not the all-seeing, all-falsifying television--and was the playing of the game in the only place it will last, the enclosed green field of the mind. There, in that warm, bright place, what the old poet called Mutability does not so quickly come.

But out here, on Sunday, October 2, where it rains all day, Dame Mutability never loses. She was in the crowd at Fenway yesterday, a gray day full of bluster and contradiction, when the Red Sox came up in the last of the ninth trailing Baltimore 8-5, while the Yankees, rain-delayed against Detroit, only needing to win one or have Boston lose one to win it all, sat in New York washing down cold cuts with beer and watching the Boston game. Boston had won two, the Yankees had lost two, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole season might go to the last day, or beyond, except here was Boston losing 8-5, while New York sat in its family room and put its feet up. Lynn, both ankles hurting now as they had in July, hits a single down the right-field line. The crowd stirs. It is on its feet. Hobson, third baseman, former Bear Bryant quarterback, strong, quiet, over 100 RBIs, goes for three breaking balls and is out. The goddess smiles and encourages her agent, a canny journeyman named Nelson Briles.

Now comes a pinch hitter, Bernie Carbo, onetime Rookie of the Year, erratic, quick, a shade too handsome, so laid-back he is always, in his soul, stretched out in the tall grass, one arm under his head, watching the clouds and laughing; now he looks over some low stuff unworthy of him and then, uncoiling, sends one out, straight on a rising line, over the center-field wall, no cheap Fenway shot, but all of it, the physics as elegant as the arc the ball describes.

New England is on its feet, roaring. The summer will not pass. Roaring, they recall the evening, late and cold, in 1975, the sixth game of the World Series, perhaps the greatest baseball game played in the last fifty years, when Carbo, loose and easy, had uncoiled to tie the game that Fisk would win. It is 8-7, one out, and school will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever. Now Bailey, picked up from the National League recently, big arms, heavy gut, experienced, new to the league and the club; he fouls off two and then, checking, tentative, a big man off balance, he pops a soft liner to the first baseman. It is suddenly darker and later, and the announcer doing the game coast to coast, a New Yorker who works for a New York television station, sounds relieved. His little world, well-lit, hot-combed, split-second-timed, had no capacity to absorb this much gritty, grainy, contrary reality.

Cox swings a bat, stretches his long arms, bends his back, the rookie from Pawtucket who broke in two weeks earlier with a record six straight hits, the kid drafted ahead of Fred Lynn, rangy, smooth, cool. The count runs two and two, Briles is cagey, nothing too good, and Cox swings, the ball beginning toward the mound and then, in a jaunty, wayward dance, skipping past Briles, feinting to the right, skimming the last of the grass, finding the dirt, moving now like some small, purposeful marine creature negotiating the green deep, easily avoiding the jagged rock of second base, traveling steady and straight now out into the dark, silent recesses of center field.

The aisles are jammed, the place is on its feet, the wrappers, the programs, the Coke cups and peanut shells, the doctrines of an afternoon; the anxieties, the things that have to be done tomorrow, the regrets about yesterday, the accumulation of a summer: all forgotten, while hope, the anchor, bites and takes hold where a moment before it seemed we would be swept out with the tide. Rice is up. Rice whom Aaron had said was the only one he'd seen with the ability to break his records. Rice the best clutch hitter on the club, with the best slugging percentage in the league. Rice, so quick and strong he once checked his swing halfway through and snapped the bat in two. Rice the Hammer of God sent to scourge the Yankees, the sound was overwhelming, fathers pounded their sons on the back, cars pulled off the road, households froze, New England exulted in its blessedness, and roared its thanks for all good things, for Rice and for a summer stretching halfway through October. Briles threw, Rice swung, and it was over. One pitch, a fly to center, and it stopped. Summer died in New England and like rain sliding off a roof, the crowd slipped out of Fenway, quickly, with only a steady murmur of concern for the drive ahead remaining of the roar. Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change on.

That is why it breaks my heart, that game--not because in New York they could win because Boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the Yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.

Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.

From - Baseball I Gave You All the Best Years of My Life © 1976 by A. Bartlett Giamatti.


Billy D said...

That was a great post! Thank you!
And there'll be no sox bashing. Those are my boys.

srchngformystry said...

kissyface, you have to tell your dumbass friend that girls DO have them more often than not. ive been having them, especially during my times of celibacy.

Anonymous said...

Having come to baseball under the poetic spell of Vin Scully, I vaguely remember the name, now that you mention it--Bart Giamatti-- from his stint as BB Commissioner.

Now, having read his essay, "The Green Fields of the Mind," I weep in my old age for lost youth; and for having lost faith in the game; and for having never before known Mr. Giamatti was a genius with words.

I shall correct the latter two deficiencies with dispatch. Doing so may restore a few disadvantages of the first deficiency.

["Time out!" Google Vin Scully. Here is the holy transcript of his ninth inning sermon on a Kofax no-hitter. I hear it again in my go-back machine. It is September 9, 1965. I am twenty-seven years young again... listening to the radio, in the garden, at night, tending plants I foolishly think will--if I take proper care of them--live as long as I. And...here is another Scully quote etched in the space behind my eyeballs in 1959: "there's a high bouncer over the mound, over second base, Mantilla's up with it, throws low and WILD...HODGES SCORES, WE GO TO CHICAGO." I am twenty-one and convinced of my own immortality. The Dodgers win the series against the dreaded White Sox in six games, three of them played in the LA Coliseum, the stadium my father and I now go to on the standing room only Vermont Streetcar of my mind to watch the Rams play at football.]

Play Ball!

Which clicked link brought me to this beautiful blog is a mystery to me. I am grateful to have accidentally found it.

Thank you kind blog host for bringing back these memories.

ex LA guy