I know there are certain things I’m not rational about and one of them is my husband playing baseball.
It all started when we were dating. He was playing baseball after work. I was spending quality time with my two young sons after work. I never got to see him play baseball.
After we got married, summers were filled with three more babies and a time-consuming and demanding job for Steven. I had to content myself with being regaled with Steven’s baseball stories from high school and college, watching him wistfully oil his mitt, and nostalgically show me pictures of a very macho and focused young man involved in the great American pastime of baseball.
Two months before our 45th birthdays, 17 years after we met, my husband bounced into the kitchen one day and proudly announced he was going back to baseball. He had joined an “Over Age 30 League” and his first practice was in two days. I don’t know who was more excited – he or I.
I hovered nervously at the door as he drove off to his first practice with the team. I paced the floors until I heard his car pulling back into the garage two hours later.
He said that practice was great – the guys friendly – the atmosphere loose – but my husband’s knee was acting up and he reluctantly (and maturely) decided to sit out the first game. My frustration was building. I felt like I’d never get to see him play baseball.
The knee slowly mended. The second game was upon us.
I rushed down to the field. I got there just as he was getting ready to bat. He swung anxiously at the first pitch, popped it in the direction of 3rd base. His knee partially buckled and he practically fell flat on his face. So much for my macho man!
His fielding at second base got off to a much smoother start. He caught a hard hit fly and threw a runner out at first. He also made a well-executed play at 2nd to end the inning.
I relecutantly left the game to pick up one of my sons from his baseball practice. I had finally seen my husband play a little baseball and the season was just beginning. I was euphoric.
My euphoria didn’t last long. When I got home, I found a blood soaked tissue on the kitchen counter. I quickly followed the trail of blood to the half bath, where I saw a pale, middle-aged man holding a bloody finger under the water faucet.
“What happened?” I asked dully. Visions of dusty batting mounds, cold cokes while sitting on hot bleachers, madly cheering a handsome hunk in a royal blue baseball cap flashed through my mind. Once again, I knew I‘d never get to see him play baseball. I flung my purse across the room in utter frustration and ran upstairs.
“I cut my damn finger while I was slicing a bagel,” he hollered after me. “I’m going to the hospital for stitches.”
“And,” he continued, now worked up to a frenzy, “I’ll be okay next Monday night even if I break my leg and have to drag it after me as I run to 1st base!”
I smiled.
My husband:
My rookie of the year.
My most valuable player.
My 22 year-old 45 year-old.
It’s now many years later. And I don’t even recall if he actually did play in the next game. Or even in the one after that.
Soon, my husband and I will both turn 77.
His baseball playing days are long over.
It’s now our grandchildren who bat and get on base, with both of us in the stands.
But our love for the game of baseball continues, as does the love for our hometown team, the Cincinnati Reds.
Some things never change.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
