Spring Is Here

This is my first sports column in a few years. It will run in Friday's Bison. It's kind of weird.

I am a 12 year old covered in dirt.
I am the dashing, leaping, sliding, grinding, spitting, shouting wreck of prepubescent awkwardness made perfect for two hours. More if we go to extras.
I am the baron of the basepaths; the governor of glove; the dealer of doubles; the scourge of the squeeze; the bandito of base knocks.
I go from first to third. I tag on a pop up. I assume the double play.
I raise some chatter. I give 110. I hear “good eye.” I look alive.
I have a cork soul, and red stitching comprises my veins. I am sewn into this game like the lacing of a glove.
I am baseball. And all is right.

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I am a 16 year old nursing a blister.
I am the husky, determined, forceful, introspective, frustrated, pock-marked, gnasher of teeth set to put you back on your heels if you crowd my plate.
I am the sultan of the slider; the sorcerer of the four-seamer; the purveyor of punishment; the mayor of menace; the banisher of balk.
I circle my changeup. I break a 12-6 curve when the coach isn’t looking. I look you back to first base.
I throw high and tight. I throw low and away. I throw behind you.
I’m lively and tightly strung. I am rough and leathery, dimpled from taking my first big hits.
I am baseball. And I am the last hurrah.

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I am a 22 year old delaying a term paper.
I am the plodding, weak-armed, worried, preoccupied, lobber of softballs who claps for your fine catches of my hopeful line drives.
I am the caliph of congratulations; the pharaoh of fair play; the grandmaster of “good game, guys;” the dandy of diving and missing; the mystic of misjudgment.
I hit three fouls. I get under the ball. I focus on my schoolwork.
I make you “move in a bit, outfield.” I make you shift your infield. I take a strike and nod my agreement to the pitcher. I walk.
I am a dead ball knuckling to the fourth outfielder. I am replaced in the fifth because I’m not focused on the game.
I am baseball — sort of. And I am not going quietly.

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I am a 27 year old paying way too much for field level.
I am the all-seeing, number-crunching, score-keeping, box score bandit who’s going to buy some nachos in the middle of the fourth and petition the league to count the ground-rule double as a home run like back in the old days.
I am the champion of cheer; the sage of sabermetrics; the Berra of bleacher wisdom; the rabbi of rant; the herald of history.
I prognosticate. I compare splits. I scrawl a backwards K.
I stay up for the West Coast games. I add up OPS. I take a flier on a fantasy up-and-comer.
I am a doctored mass of rawhide ready to play — or watch — two. I am a wily veteran taking the field again and trying to stoke the fire.
I am 12. I am 16. I am 22.
I am covered in dirt.
I am baseball. And it’s nice to be back.

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