Baseball

It's late at night. I just finished watching "Field of Dreams," and it inspired me to meditate a bit on something. As I look back on my life, I realize that I am a person of very strong passions, that occasionally ebb and flow. But nonetheless, the passion is always there. I found myself getting chilled and teary eyed at the end of the aforementioned movie, at the sight of a father and son playing catch. It brought me back a long time ago, to the Nyquist family baseball diamond. I remember it distinctly. Home plate was the north wall of the house, the large evergreen constituted first. Bauman's tree was 2nd, and that one tree just in the side yard was third. I remember my dad pitching to me, as I proudly donned my Farmington Youth Baseball jersey and hat. Was it third grade, in the Athletics jersey? Who knows. Sam, my neighbor played all 8 positions, and I had to double as the catcher for the balls I whiffed on. I remember being driven to the middle school, or Akin Road, or Hill Dee, and running out with my new cleats, my gray pants and black striped baseball socks. I remember the dust that settled on my worn away glove. My parents in the assembly line of adults, sitting in lawn chairs along the baselines. The sunflower seeds, the water jugs, the switching of hat positions to try and transfer new karma to our team. I remember Dad taking me to the Metrodome, and telling me about Kirby Puckett. I remember Game 6, when it seemed that he won it for us all by himself. I didn't want 1991 to end, because I was so happy that we won. Those years, when I dutifully wore my Twins shirts to middle school, constantly being ridiculed, but constantly trying to make bets on how many games the Twins will win the World Series by. I couldn't give up. The shrine in the music room. The ritualistic visit to Matt's before the game. The swing of the bat, the beauty of the game. A game that in so many ways, defines us. That in so many ways, reminds us of the Good. Joy, fear, exuberance, sadness, euphoria all contained in a single, beautiful swing. Trying to fend off the sun as you stare intently at the infield. Or in Minnesota's case, trying to avoid the floodlights on the Teflon sky. The appreciation of the crowd to the beloved home team. Take Me Out To The Ballgame. The joy when your team wins and the sadness when you lose. But always, always, confident that next year will be the year. The feeling you get when picking up a glove after 10 years of absence. Missing every grounder hit to you, your weak arm throwing halfway to the nearest player, the inability to even get close to hitting the ball. But you don't care. All you feel is happiness, that you are back to doing something you love. Something you love, but forgot. When I was young, I loved playing the game of baseball. Then, something left me, and I wish I could change that. I wish I would have continued the game. But I didn't. Now I just hope I can pick up some of it. To experience some of that pure love of playing the game that I once had. Many things in this world are bad, teach us that life is hopeless, that evil is all around. But this game, man, none of that appears. In its purest form, devoid of steroid scandals, outrageous salaries, petulant players, we can see ourselves. My father gave me a love of the game. He is not a ballplayer, but he understood the importance of the game. That has always been a common ground for us throughout the years. Going to see the Twins, together. It truly is a game unique to fathers and sons. I'm confident it could also be between mothers and daughters, or fathers and daughters, or any combination. I dream of having a family, of having children. I may never own my own field in a cornfield, but a house, and 3 trees will do. A simple game of catch, be it with a softball or a baseball. A love of the game. Hopefully a love of my beloved Twins. I want my children to know this. Our game. But more than that. Our experience.