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Reflection
Alyssa Wiegand
This morning I passed a park on my way to work. I've
walked this route hundreds of times before, but this
morning is different. The sun casts familiar, long
shadows on the ground and draws my eyes to an ill-kept
inner-city baseball field across the park. Really just a
rusty back stop set against the vague outline of a dirt
infield. I usually avert my eyes and woefully shake my
head at it.
This morning though, as I look at the field through the
shadows, the fresh smell of morning dew on the grass
combines with the damp, early-morning summer chill to
bring on a flood of memories.
And even though it's been a solid year since I've played
competitively, the slightly hazy fog over the field
brings me back to early Saturday and Sunday morning
summer softball.
Waking up at 6:30 a.m. I fall into the backseat behind
my parents, hoping I'm not forgetting something in my
drowsy state. I use the car ride to finish waking up and
to begin visualization exercises.
When we arrive at the fields, we're one of the first
cars there. We climb out of our seats, slowly stretching
and letting out one final yawn. As we walk toward the
field the dew on the grass dampens my socks. A thin mist
shrouds the park and the entire complex seems to glow in
the soft morning light.
My mom sits in the bleachers to read until the game
starts. My dad puts my equipment down next to the bench
and stands on the field for a minute before he begins
his inspection of the diamond. He breathes in the
morning air, both of us thinking about the day ahead and
wondering what it will bring. He walks the field then
comes over to the dugout and pulls his mitt out of my
bag.
He stands inside the fence and I go stand next to him.
And on this walk to work, where I experience conditions
so rare in the
middle of Chicago, I cannot help but think that this
morning was just for me.
To remind me why I love the game.
To remind me why I devoted so much time and effort to
it.
To remind me of the memories that really stick with you
--which ones really matter.
Like bringing in the winning run in extra innings when
the pitcher intentionally walked the leadoff batter to
pitch to you is something you tell your kids about.
But that's not what really makes the game a part of you.
It's that moment before the umpires arrive and you're
pulling on your
cleats, wondering how they can be more comfortable than
slippers.
It's slipping on your mitt for the first time that day
and feeling like you've just been reunited with your
best friend even though it's only been twelve hours
since you last wore it.
It's that first practice swing of the bat when, despite
the fact that it's only twenty-eight ounces of aluminum,
your muscles still scream from working so hard the day
before.
But for me, it's walking onto the field to join my pops.
Hands on our
hips, we take in the morning. He lifts his cap, runs his
fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, and
adjusts his
lucky-when-we're-less-than-fifty-miles-from-home-and-its-not-raining
hat. He pulls his sunglasses from his collar and
carefully polishes the lenses with his shirt before
putting them on.
He bends over, picks up a ball and flips it to me in one
fluid motion.
"Ready?" He asks.
And we play catch.
Together.
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