Horizons

Wanna throw me a bucket?  The question could indicate several things.  Someone could be feeling ill.  The roof could be leaking.  The boat could be going down.  It’s none of those. It’s our version of Ray Kinsella’s “wanna have a catch?”.  Colin would like me to throw him some batting practice.  The answer is, always has been, and always will be yes.

I’ve been throwing, and he’s been hitting, for more than a dozen years.  There’s a rhythm to the task at hand.  The balls arrive every ten to fifteen seconds, depending on how high/far the last one went.  Nine out of ten are hittable, and Colin will get at least a little wood on the ones that aren’t just to make me feel better.  He doesn’t need a helmet.  I don’t throw hard enough and he’s much too quick to be in harm’s way if my arm slot somehow jumps out of the groove that’s been worn into my skeletal structure. 

Throw and hit.  Throw and hit.  The Malin boys remain boys like every baseball father / son (or softball parent / daughter) combo with each throw and hit.  The arc of the assignment – like the balls hit – had varying trajectories over time.  Early on, it was just for fun.  The outcome became more serious as the competition level increased, but the fun was retained.  The father / son chit chat as we picked up the balls sprayed over and out of the field got more complex as the years passed, but the jokes didn't.  In addition to after work and weekend sessions, we’d typically hit a post-game bucket of balls if we were the last game on the diamond for the night.  Other kids would join in, and more than one trip for after game ice cream was delayed until they turned off the field lights.               

The field lights are off and sun is setting tonight, both literally and figuratively.  It’s a beautiful sunset to the day and I’m mindful of the six weeks that stand between just jumping in the Jeep together to head to an open ballfield and the three-hour drive to college that will make such moments rare in the future.   I snap a pic for memories and smile to keep from feeling sad.  The father / son ending of Field of Dreams may have unleashed buckets of tears in cinemas across America but I’ll be darned if I’m going to go weeping into some firefly sparkled Iowa night. 

One of baseball’s many charms is looking out from the plate to the field in front of you.  Unlike the constrained playing fields of football, tennis, soccer and the like, baseball goes on from the point of home plate to as far as the eye can see.  Sure, there are foul lines and an outfield fence that starts at 120 feet when you’re small and can go past 400 feet as you get bigger.  But that outfield fence doesn’t stop you from working harder and practicing more to drive the ball farther over the fence.

There’s a horizon in every field of endeavor.  You can play within it, or you can expand it.