spring haiku 7

wind-slanted rain shards 

sailing across center field

batter up, Printemps!

camaraderie

Four men, all over 60. (For an inning, 5 men, one under 60.) Syracuse Chiefs game. Section 204. Common bonds, shared stories. What do older men share? Family, work, loss, youth, survival, names. And talk. Of the game. And what once was. Stories. Jabs. Laughter, lots of it. Camaraderie. Comrades. Comrade: "One who shares the same room." Even when it is a ballpark. We skipped the fireworks. We've seen enough of those for ten lifetimes. Life is grand. In the grandstands.

I'm a hit!

You'd think it'd have happened sooner. What with having attended so many baseball games over a long span of years, I was a statistical candidate. You would think baseball and moi would have had a close encounter sooner than this. In the 1980s, a fly ball came right next to me in the box seats at Shea Stadium, near where the prime seats rose up and almost met the second deck seats. At the last second, as the ball reentered the earthly atmosphere, I chickened out. I thought it might hurt. It was a pop-up, not a liner. Someone else got it. I could have had it. I can't say even now if it would have hurt my bare hand (or hands). I tend to think not. (Dear Armchair Shrinks: Don't read too much into this regarding risk, fear, reward, benefit, fear, success, failure; did I say fear?)

Fast forward to last night, at the Louisville Bats at Syracuse Chiefs game. I was sitting with friends six or seven rows behind the dugout, third-base side, gorgeous night. Great seats. Late innings. A ball came zinging off the bat of a lefty batter, one of our guys, I think. The ball was racing to me, right at me, no doubt about it, had my name on it. It hit me square in the upper arm, right shoulder. It hurt. I knew it was going to hit me. I was oddly frozen. Just like they say about accidents, time slowed down. I saw the stitches on the ball. To me it looked like a "heavy" pitch, not a lot of rotation. But it was coming at me. Fast. Weirdly, I think I put my shoulder into it. Maybe figuring I'd protect my head or those around me. All I know is I was frozen. And I knew this would hurt. I even felt some whiplash, like my neck and whole body tightened up in recoil.

It hit me. It bounced off me, back a ways, I think. Everyone asked if I was all right. I said, yeah, I think so. Ushers were there right away. Medics were summoned. I told them, sure, take a look at my arm and shoulder. I walked with them through the stands to the first-aid station. Someone tossed me the ball. A few people clapped. Several asked how I was. Fine. Waving to them. Wearing my San Francisco Giants pullover. No hat.

The medics gave me an ice pack, took some info down. I asked for ibuprofen or something. They weren't allowed to dispense that. The upper arm was red but not terribly so. They said it felt warm.

I walked back to my seat. An usher checked on me later, brought me a new ice pack.

Talked about it. Gathered more details from those sitting around me. Whew! Sure glad it missed the young girl in front of me! If it had hit her in the head, no telling how awful that would have been. 

The locals lost in extras.

Yeah, stiff and sore today but otherwise okay. Not even noticeably bruised. Yet. Hashtag metaphor.

take me out to the (local) ballgame

Last evening, I watched the first-place Syracuse Chiefs (with Emmanuel Burriss) defeat the first-place Indianapolis Indians. Bucs prospect Gregory Polanco contributed a defensive gem, crashing into the wall in right field. Lucky if 2,000 fans were there. A summer shower lasted through most of one inning. The umpires let the players keep playing. Sunlight and rain, then the rainbow over right. Gorgeous. I went to the game on a whim. Ended up meeting baseball author Hart Seely and former Syracuse mayoral candidate Pat Hogan, of Tipp Hill. Macdog and others provided updates of the Giants’ loss. Hart, Hogan, former Post-Standard photog Jim Commentucci, “Doc,” and I settled ourselves directly in back of the visitors’ bullpen. We did not taunt them. The pitchers and catcher or two in waiting talked and restlessly fooled around; some drank Red Bull. Some spat. The five of us fans traded baseball stories, with direct or one-step-removed stories of Mickey Mantle, Sandy Koufax, Steve Carlton, Don Drysdale, Whitey Herzog, Willie Mays, Tommy Fecking Lasorda, Vin Scully, Cookie Lavagetto, Willie Horton, Ben Gazzara, Dan Valenti, Jackie Robinson, Branch Rickey, and others. It was brilliant. One of the best times I’ve ever had at a ballgame. Laid-back, witty, conversational — and the home-team wins, almost as an afterthought.

This will never happen again.

Not in exactly the same way.

That's the glory of it; that's the story of it.