It snowed this week but the pride of bragging to out-of-state friends wore off too rapidly and all that was left was the depression that comes from an infinitely delayed Spring. This is particularly true at my house where the massive remodel project we started in the unseasonably warm weather of December is still chugging along with no real end in site. More winter weather reinforces that the normal seasons are just broken. More workers indicate that even the calendars, project plans and timelines cannot put things back together. We have entered an infinite loop where it is always mid-winter-mid-project and the dirty snow and saw dust stretch from here to eternity.
Perhaps this is why I find myself staring lovingly into the trunk of my car. It’s a massive space—big enough perhaps to sleep in if it comes to that—but size isn’t what draws my attention. I am drawn to the blue bucket with the broken handle that holds about twelve softballs. This container, seen only when transporting tile, doorknobs or luggage, is a faint promise of a different future.
This bucket of balls will be important some day. On that day it won’t really matter what the weather is like, nor the condition of the house. It won’t matter if I had a good day at work or if my kids are unhappy or how much money is in my checking account. It won’t matter if I have a head cold or feel jumpy from drinking too much coffee. The appointed time will come and the balls will be removed from the trunk and put into the good service of welcoming the 2007 E-League softball season.
It is a one day workout for these old friends. They are only needed for that one day, a day of so-called “practice.†This is when we gather to remember the important things: the leather grip of a bat, the wet smell of a park, the giddy feeling that this year is your year. Your turn comes and you hit and maybe you hit well and that feels good and maybe you hit poorly and it’s frustrating but it still feels good. You catch a ball, roll it back into the infield, make a joke, smoke a cigarette, think about something other than those other things.
After practice the balls go back into the bucket and back into the car. The rest of us get a full season—twelve glorious Wednesdays to hit, throw, run, drink beer and eat Italian meat sandwiches. We get Uniforms and a clip board and a fabulous cape. When the schedule dedicates us as “home†team we unwrap two new balls shiny and full of hope which are dedicated to sixty minutes of activity before they retire to the softball bag and if they are lucky at the end of the season to the blue bucket.
The off season is sitting patiently in your blue bucket waiting for the appointed time to arrive. Passing time is not difficult because at your core you are just a simple ball rolling around in the trunk. In your best moments you forget all together why you are in the bucket in the first place. This is good because if you could clearly recall practice, or even worse, that day when you were the brand new ball, unscuffed and full of infinite promise, you’d jump out of the trunk and onto the highway.
I am certain that a softball cannot change the seasons nor put an end to my endless house project. I am just as certain that the balls in the trunk of my car will see their moment in the sun. I imagine each of them blasting off a perfectly swung bat; launched skyward they sail beyond the reach of calendars and become free of any season, any project and any time.
Wow, what a roller-coaster of emotion you have taken me on! My heart broke and I almost cried as I read about these poor balls of yours, hidden away in the dark, shrouded in blue, waiting for their one day of action and glory each year.
Then my heart soared as they burst forth for all to see, their whiteness framed by the azure sky, sailing through the air in rampant joy, heralding the start of spring.
What you gon’ do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?
just leave my son in one piece. thank you so much. Have a great season!
I wish I had a tough kid like Roger. My son’s a fairy.