There are so many things that have come out in me since I came back from Europe that I never knew were there. For example, I've learned over the summer that I love baseball. I love it.
Now, you didn't know this, did you? Neither did I, until now, which is funny...it's definitely in the family. All of the men played, but my grandfather was a definite stand-out, according to the great-uncles and aunts of my family. Anything you threw at him, he could hit/bunt/catch, no matter how fast or how sneaky you were. My dad--who himself was a great player and played all the way through college at Ohio State--was telling me the other day how playing with Grandpa discouraged him, and probably stopped him from pursuing the sport further. He told me that he would come home from college in the summer and throw his best college-level pitches at his Dad, who would consistently knock them to kingdom come. Grandpa would misjudge a few here and there, but not many. The worst, my dad said, was that he was so relaxed about it. He didn't even look like he was trying.
Grandpa never made it into the pros; in fact, I don't think he ever tried. I don't know the reasons why, but I suspect the war had something to do with it. Baseball was probably a frivolity thrown away in the shadow of a more pressing mission. He did pass along the love of baseball to his son, my dad, who is still crazy about it after all these years, even though he hasn't played seriously since college. My dad knows more about baseball than anyone else I've met. The game of baseball, that is, not just statistics and batting averages of famous players. He also has more plain common sense when it comes to how best to actually play the game and handle players, and I can't help but think that in a fair world he would probably be coaching somewhere. He'd be brilliantly successful at it.
For all of that, I've never had much use for baseball until I got back from Europe, starved for American things, and the boys had...well...grown-up. The oldest of the two, Peter, joined a team for the first time at the beginning of the summer. It wasn't my thing, but he's my brother and we stick together, so I went to the games. They were fun, if only to watch the little kids run around in utter confusion whenever anything happened to move the ball. Then, as the summer really got underway, the local summer collegiate team started playing at a nearby field, and--bada-bing!--just like that I found out I was a baseball fan! I...the bookworm, artist, musician, dreamer who'd never had time for such a thing before...I was suddenly a baseball fanatic. If there was a game on a night I was available, I went if at all possible. And if no one else except brothers would go (and neighbourhood kids, on occasion), well...I went anyway. I picked out a favorite player to watch (he, suspiciously, reminds me of my dad...long and lanky, with a mean swing!) and a least-favorite umpire to yell at. I knew the best hitters on our team, and the most threatening pitchers on the other teams. I knew which players could switch hit, which couldn't hit a change-up to save their lives, and which could be counted on in a crisis.
Then one day, my brothers threw an old, ugly glove at me and told me to field. I'd never been much of a ball-playing girl, and in recent years I've not had much time for playing outside, but for some reason, I consented. The baseballs flew, despite the look on my face that can probably be best described as bewildered. They went to my left and my right, bounced under my legs, whipped over my head...but rarely landed in my glove. However, I'm not my mother's daughter for nothing. So I vowed that I would learn to wield that piece of cowhide if it cost my life and/or sanity. For a week, I played almost every day, and despite aching hands and shoulders--Peter can throw hard!--I hung in there. Along the way, I learned to play a pretty decent game of catch. The aches began to subside, and I began to become pretty consistent, and we continued to play. I was even looking forward to that knock on my bedroom door, so I could thrust aside the books and go hang out with the boys. It became a priority, and Nellie became a baseball chick.
I think this transformation probably alarmed my parents at first, or at least alerted them to the fact that the girl who left for Europe almost a year ago is not the same girl who came back. That girl was always looking ahead to the future, bright-eyed at the hope of bigger things to come, and always looking for paradise. This girl is different. She still has occasional bouts with wanderlust, but she has also learned first-hand that the world has lied...paradise is not necessarily found in big dreams, exciting places and great quests, much touted though they are. More often, it's found in the quiet, simmering heat of an August day, the sweat of honest work, the love of a family, and the peace that comes with living in God's will. It comes in the loving, and the sighing, and the laughing, and the yearning.
And curiously enough, I found it in the thwack of a ball in an old leather glove.
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