Zen, Baseball and the Space-Time Continuum

I used to experience it nearly every game.

The catcher would give me the signal. I would nod my assent, begin my delivery, and then it would happen. Time would slow, and I assumed the third-party role of a spectator.

“What is happening?” I would think as my weight shifted in mid-stride. “Shouldn’t I be paying attention to the game?” But I was no longer in the first-person. It was indeed happening again.

In these moments, I can no longer hear the crowd noise, the dugout banter, the sound of a train in the distance, or the hum of traffic so audible seconds earlier. The air is soft. I see the catcher’s mitt, but I also notice his worn out cleats, the batter’s contemptuous eyes, a floating hot dog wrapper in the breeze, the umpire’s weathered face. It seems that I have time to breathe in this surreal scene, not as the pitcher, but as an outside observer.

My arm is apparently moving to deliver the pitch, but I don’t feel it or control it.  I can only watch the moment unfold in wonder of these present sensations. Is this reality, or only a dream?

This has happened to me before when fielding a ground ball at third base. Time slows as my body responds to the play at hand. I see myself welcoming the menacing baseball into my glove, picking it up carefully, feeling the tight seams in my loose grip, the field dirt clinging to its leather, then launching it toward first base in a single fluid motion.

It seems like an eternity as the ball rips across the field, curving slightly in its timeless race toward the waiting recipient. I watch it fly and wonder what just transpired.

Just what is going on in these moments? They are not unique to me, for I have asked other athletes who describe a similar “out-of-body experience”; something spiritual or metaphysical that can transport one into an altered sense of time and space. Not the “fight or flight” reaction, but something much more peaceful and mysterious.

During those last few years of my time in baseball, I learned to embrace and marvel at this private metaphysical experience on the field. I never knew when it would show up, but it carried greater pleasure than the glories of victory.

And although at present the frozen grounds of Winter lie hard beneath my feet, I know the smell of fresh cut grass will soon fill the air. The early morning sunlight will filter through trees to reveal a dew covered field waiting for another season of little league romantics and baseball mystics.