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THIS IS US
Thank God There’s Crying in Baseball
Everyone needs a place where they’re allowed to have feelings
We were at the park, and the park was next to a baseball field, tryouts in full swing. We hung our arms over the fence for a bit, the sun warm on our backs, and watched. One kid, in particular, struck me. Not because of his sprint to a base or the effortless way he threw the ball, but because he was lounging in the outfield like Ferdinand the bull, propping himself up on one elbow, his legs straight and crossed at the ankle, his cap pushed up on his head, his body, face, and vibe totally languid and relaxed and free. He was, I’d guess, 10 years old. “Why is he lying down?” I asked my companion. “He’s just there to catch a ball if it comes out that far. The coaches are assessing the hitters, not the fielders.”
I am only a casual baseball fan, someone who loves baseball games for the humanity of the entire experience more than for who wins and loses. I can’t name more than a couple dozen players, and I can’t give you a single meaningful statistic. In ways that have nothing to do with RBIs, strikes, and fouls, a baseball game, for me, is a selfish, hedonistic thrill. I can think of few things more gratifying than spring, summer, and autumn afternoons at a stadium, eating popcorn and drinking silky, cold beer…
