For Ailing Cubs Fans Everywhere

Greetings Beloved Readers,

Here is an excerpt from my forthcoming book - Sheetrock in the Road. Let me know if it helps.

The Mound

Sometimes, when you are a boy, your Grandfather teaches you. He takes you by the hand and explains that you are going to a sacred place where men may only see God if they really look for him. On the way, while you are riding in the supple interior of the 1957 Chevy, your Grandfather explains that there are rules while you are at worship. You never call out negatively. You shout praise at the top of your lungs and revel in the thousands around you doing the same. Sometimes, when you are a boy, you learn that worshiping God has nothing to do with a place, but rather how your heart is in that place.

There are sacred places spoken of only in hushed tones of deep reverence. There are sacred places that elicit wild yelps, screams, and that cause people to roll on the floor or faint. According to Moses, there are even sacred places that cause you to take off your shoes. Across the world stand cathedrals built centuries ago where the slightest whisper echoes from the marble and the granite floors. They command silence from the pilgrim and reverence. In these vast halls of wood and stone, tall spires rise up to the heavens to tell all that they can, “Come here to find God.” Bells peel from these towers calling all to worship and prayer.

The natural world of cathedral mountain sanctuaries and finger of God canyons still the murmurs of tourists as they unfold their splendor to visitors. Azure rivers wind through brown ravines. Deep forests echo with the symphony of life causing the hiker to push on a little deeper, never knowing quite what he seeks. Everyone, if they are looking, finds a sacred place, a Mecca that sings to his or her soul of what has gone before and what may possibly someday follow.
Sometimes someone shares with you his or her sacred place. They give it as gift. They pay the way and show you to your place. For the very fortunate few upon whose soul God shines his most glorious light, the pitcher’s mound is that sacred place. The chosen see the truth imbued in the barren dirt mound at the time of creation. The enlightened know that all manner of things emanate from this one place into the hearts of small boys and ancient men. It stands just slightly elevated above the rest of the baseball field and it is from this shrine that the worship begins.

The pews fill slowly with eager worshipers. The stewards finalize their preparations of the garden by raking the rich sweet grass around the dais then smoothing the dirt and checking for litter or debris. Consider the first lesson learned around the mound. It stands alone, a ruddy dirt lump in a sea of costly cultured green fescue. Equidistant from the bases, it appears an eye sore to the uninitiated. Instead, it is the beginning of all things. The game cannot begin until the pitcher takes his place and hurls the sphere sixty feet to the catcher. So important is this moment that dignitaries from all areas of life vie for the honor of throwing out the first pitch. I do not want to get ahead of myself though. Before there can be a first pitch there must be a call to worship.

The lector announces that all is ready for worship and all rise as one to intone the baseball hymn. As a boy, I grew up worshiping at the mound in Atlanta Stadium. The hymn held special meaning for me. I would see my Grandfather stand facing the flag, a moist spot in the corner of his eye, his hand reverently over his heart. Once when I was distracted during the singing of the hymn, I began to look around. My Grandfather slowly reached out his strong gentle carpenter’s hand, grasped the top of my head, and softly, irresistibly turned my attention back to the flag dancing in the evening breeze above the stadium. No words were necessary and besides he was busy singing in his cracked old man’s country voice. It was the first time I remember thinking that the song was about our team, “… and the home of the Braves.”[1]

The flag flows in the breeze atop the stadium and the voices lift to it. The singing of the National Anthem provides us with a moment of unity. We declare to the world that we are one nation. We remind millions of people every day that there is a symbol of our nation that waves in the wind over even our leisure activities. The national anthem at the beginning of every ball game matters.

As the song ends, the first sign that this is no ordinary worship erupts from the congregation. All explode into thunderous applause and cheers. At this point the chosen one makes his way to the mound. It may be a politician, a rock star, or current pop hero. The dignitary recognizes the import of the moment weather they understand it or not. They stand atop the dais, pause for a moment, and release what is usually an awkward rambling pitch. Nonetheless, the congregation cheers, hoops and hollers. The umpire always calls it a strike and the catcher either throws the ball back to the celebrity or trots it out to him, depending on his judgment of their ability to catch.

Amidst further cheers the dignitary departs and the seriousness of the moment descends upon the crowd. For a moment the calls vendors for peanuts and beer are ignored. Thousands of eyes focus on the pitcher as he makes his way up the mound. The umpire hands the first game ball to the catcher who tosses it out to the waiting pitcher. The first batter from the enemy team takes his place in the batter’s box. Every ear strains for the sound of the two words that will move things forward. Those lucky enough to be seated behind home plate hear it clearly. The din of the noise that is a constant in ball parks forces those seated near the outfield to wait for the sound to echo and carry to them. The point is that the words come. The man in black behind the catcher raises his hand and points toward the pitcher and intones the first holy words of the day, “Play ball.”

The pitcher looks in and takes his first signal from the catcher. Their secret language of numbers and motions tells the pitcher what to throw and the catcher what to expect. Sequestered in the pitcher’s glove is the ball. He carefully rotates to get the grip essential to the proper pitch. Carefully adjusting his footing, he looks in one more time to get his bearings. The stretch and delivery can be ponderous or lightning fast. Either way the sphere is launched and the batter must choose. Like all of life, he as little time to decide but he must decide to swing or not. From that single binary choice flow a multitude of linear binary choices. If he does not swing is it a ball or a strike? If he swings is it a hit or a miss? If it is a hit is it fair or foul? Is it a grounder or in the air? Is it a fly ball or line drive? Is it fieldable or out of reach? Is it a home run?

The time from pitch to home run is a matter of seconds, and every pitch has that potential. Each ball thrown could end up sailing over the fence into the glove or head of a waiting fan. It does not matter which team hits the home run everyone loves to see it. In every game, every pitch from every pitcher has the same potential. Weather curve ball, breaking ball, or fastball the binary choices unfold with the same potential conclusion. Every batter has the chance to reach that potential, even pitchers.[2]

The point is that baseball is about potential. From atop the mound the pitcher unfolds a potential that reaches the entire world. Every spring the potential released by the first pitch from every pitcher’s mound emanates the possibility that dreams can be realized. Every player on the field started out as a boy in the bleachers. Each successive pitch is renewed hope for the next hit, the next catch, the next home run.

Baseball has changed drastically since I was a boy. Too often it is about the money. Grown men are willing to disappoint millions of fans over money. They all need to remember that they are living a dream that few realize. They are getting paid well to play a game. With that privilege comes a great responsibility. The players of today are setting the standards of fair play for millions of young players who look to them as an example. Every player holds in his glove the hopes of a coming generation.

This is why baseball is sacred. From it I learned about potential and fair play. My Grandfather knew there were life lessons in the box seats at Atlanta Stadium and he diligently passed them along to me with a fair supply of hot dogs and Coca-Cola. You never boo the opposition. You always cheer a great play even if it is the other team. You do not leave you empty cups in the stands. You are nice to the vendors. The most important lesson though is on the mound. Poised there is the pitcher and the next pitch is imminent. The linear binary will unfold even if no one but the pitcher acts. It will pass too quickly to see. This is the definition of life. Like every pitch, every moment has new potential but only if we choose to swing.

Wishing you joy in the journey,

Aramis Thorn

[1] There are many who do not understand the importance of the national anthem. Before we begin what has been often called the national pastime, we first pay tribute to a nation that allows us to have such leisure. When I was a boy this meant that you stopped talking, put your hand over your heart, looked at the flag, and sang with all your might. You showed reverence for the moment. Vendors stopped selling hot dogs, peanuts, and beer until the song was over. I do not know what has changed but people stopped teaching their children about this and those children grew up into ignoramuses who talk on their cell phones, shout for the beer boy, or even complain about the national anthem itself. That song is hard to sing, has too many high notes, and is still one of the best reminders that people died so that we could go to baseball games. So the next time you are blessed enough to go to a baseball game, hang up your cell phone, put down that beer, stand up straight, put your hand over your heart, face the flag, and sing till your throat hurts.

[2] I think that the decline in baseball may have started with the introduction of the designated hitter by the American League. There is something integral to the game for the opposing pitchers to face each other in the linear struggle. I think it diminishes the stature of the game to say that the pitcher does not have to hit. He does not have to hit well, but he should have to hit. The designated hitter sends the message that the game is about something besides all nine men in the field doing their best and making their individual contribution to the cause. I am pretty sure that the eventual destruction of our great nation will be traced back to the introduction of the designated hitter.