I remember loving baseball, and as i grow older i slowly regain every bit of it back again. i remember playing t-ball, and breaking my arm halfway through the season, wanting so badly to hit the ball with my cast. i remember my light-blue jersey with the mobile gas station logo on the front and the number 5 on the back. I liked that number because alan did, but in time i convinced myself that i did because of it's superior form. i remember coach pitch, and wearing the pathetic helmet to play the pitchers mound. If it was so dangerous why didn't the coaches wear one too?
I remember minor league and starting to actually pitch a baseball. It was then that alan and i began to throw the ball around in the front yard. I would pitch from the mound of the edge of our driveway to alan, who sat 15 paces away on whatever cooler we found in our garage. if we got really ambitious, he would pull out an old face guard and bright orange leg pads, sometimes even turning a life-jacket backwards to serve as a chest protector. it was in that front yard that i was taught to throw the ball fast and straight, and then to put my middle finger on the inside of the seems and snap my wrist as i delivered the ball. I kicked my leg out far and at the last moment i bent my knee up parallel to the ground, and then pushed it forward. I saw Cory Trent do that, and i thought he was really cool. Alan called the pitches and i delivered the cheese, (that's what Mr. Cline always called it).
I remember the majors, playing for Professional firefighters and paramedics, wearing a maroon jersey, still number 5 of course. i wore high black socks and pulled my pant legs up just below the knees. I remember my first base hit as a 9 year old, a fast grounder down the third base line. I rounded first and saw my coach Todd Kenney's clap his hands and say nicely done behind his dark beard, and remember wanting so badly to do that again. more than anything, i liked catching a throw in from the outfield and slapping my glove down for a tag. the next 3 years i pitched more, and remember hitting a left handed batter in the lower back and making him cry. maybe that is why i always had a slight fear of being hit by a pitch, simply because i knew how capable i was of accidentally doing it to someone else.
I moved up to junior league when i was 13 and played my last season of baseball. i always told myself that i didn't enjoy the game anymore, but the truth is that i didn't excel like i used to. i didn't like the fact that it didn't come so easy anymore. i loved the beauty of baseball and the moments that it's beauty brought out life's fullness, even if only for brief moments, but when those moments lacked in my game i lost my appreciation for them altogether. instead of seeing the need for growth, i saw the need to flee from the thing that pointed out my weakness.
i regret how selfish i am, but more than anything i regret how numb i've become toward the grace of christ. derek webb wrote, 'i am thankful that i'm incapable, of doing any good on my own.'
my sin ought to be all the more display of the beauty of christ's redemption, and all the motivation i need to boast in it (grace) above all else.
ben schans talked me and a few guys into hitting some balls after work, and after chasing down a couple fly balls, my old love was rekindled. there's something in running down a hard hit fly ball that will explain all of life's questions in the squeeze of a glove.
