Roy Hobbs and A Country for Old Men

I’m 51 years old, and today I felt like a kid again.

During our season-opener game in my “old man baseball league”, I hit a legit out-of-the-park home run. Not only was it the first home run I’ve hit since 1991, it was also the first over-the-fence home run I have even seen in 15 years of playing in this league.

This moment in history was beautiful for so many reasons. Let me explain…

We are all “old-ish” in this baseball league. We play at local high school and college baseball fields, using wood bats, metal spikes, and all the fixin’s. We slide and dive and run around like a bunch of teenagers, but with as much caution as possible. These bones don’t bounce like they used to. This is a 50-and-older league, so most teams include players in their 50’s and 60’s. And they are good players. Most were high school stars, many played at various college levels, and a few were even drafted into the professional ranks back in the day. When you see a 55-year old throwing 80mph fastballs, breaking balls that move as if possessed, and older guys with a certain “experienced swagger” as they take the field, you are looking at greatness… just a bit older and more mature. Most of these players dominated the field “back in the olden days” (as my kids used to say).

And with age and years, comes an understanding that each of us have experienced life and loss, pain and joy, heartbreak and beauty and challenges. And we will not be on this planet much longer. So as we put on our uniforms and lace up our cleats, doing our deliberate pre-game rituals of stretching and warming up and catching up on each other’s lives, there is an unspoken gratitude. Our bodies still allow us to live out these childhood fantasies of playing baseball for extended decades of our lives. We don’t know how much longer we can do this, but we love this game. We love the spring and the freshly cut grass, the chalked lines and the crack of a bat. We risk the pulled hamstrings, bumps and bruises to slide into second base, to sprint toward a deep fly ball, to reach back and gun down a runner, to turn on a fastball and launch it down the left field line. This is life for us, even if only for a moment. We can be heroes, if only for one day.

This moment also happened at one of the fields where my beloved son, Isaac, and his girlfriend would sometimes come watch the old men play ball. I thought of the two of them as I rounded the bases. Isaac lives in my heart, so I felt his presence with me. I was not alone. I looked into the dugout and saw several of the faces who came to Isaac’s memorial service, demonstrating a sincere love and friendship that extends far beyond the dugouts and bent chainlink fences of random Middle Tennessee ball parks. It was my baseball family, celebrating the moment, deep with memory and love and support of me through my darkest days. I know it is “just a game”, but it is so much more than that to me and so many others…. and I am grateful to share these moments with my dear friends, regardless of whether we win or lose, hit the home runs or strike out.

When I came up to the plate today, it was my third at-bat. I had earlier popped up, as well as got an innocuous base hit single to center. The first pitch was called a ball, although I think it could have easily been called a strike on the low outside portion of the plate. The second pitch was also called a ball. Two balls, no strikes. Anyone familiar with baseball knows that a 2-0 count is a “batter’s count”. I knew that the pitcher needed to throw a strike to make sure he didn’t eventually walk me, that he would probably go to his fastball to control the pitch better, and most likely aim right down the middle of the plate. I was determined to swing for the fences if I saw a big, juicy fastball hurled over the strike zone. The pitcher wheeled back and delivered his pitch, clearly a fastball headed down the middle of the plate. I was already beginning my front step, activating my legs, hips and torso to swing my bat with full force through the strike zone.

And then something happened….

I was suddenly watching the action take place from behind the umpire, as if I was hovering 15 feet away watching myself swing the bat and connect with the ball. The solid crack of the bat, the explosive shot of the baseball as it vaulted heavenward on a trajectory toward the left-center wall, clouds in their ominous billowing, the dog barking across the street, the smell of dirt and dust and pine tar clinging to air molecules… all of it became like a high definition dream that was unfolding before me, senses awakened and alive.

After this brief dissociative third-party-observer-moment, I was returned to the body in the batters’ box (me), and I sprinted toward first base. Will this ball go over the fence? I don’t know, I’ve never hit a ball this hard with a wooden bat. Maybe I should sprint so I can possibly get a triple if the ball hits off the wall, dig, run, sprint… but as I began to round first, it was clear to me: the ball was long gone over the fence. My team was shouting from the dugout. Even the opposing team was cheering me on. We had all witnessed a long ball, and it was perfect.

I slowed my trot and turned my attention to the shouts and smiles coming from my dugout, spread my arms wide then brought my hands to my face in an over-exaggerated expression of surprise, referencing the iconic home run gesture by Crash Davis (from Bull Durham). Crossing home plate, I was met by congratulatory fist bumps and handshakes from my entire team, from the catcher of the opposing team, and even from the umpire who has watched us old guys play for years. Again, it was a perfect and beautiful moment.

Elation, joy, acceptance and friendship. These are the moments of life that BRING life into our mortal frames. Yes, they are fleeting moments, but they are real and dramatic and worthy of gratitude, perhaps even reverence.

This moment would never have happened in my life if my wife wasn’t supportive of me and my crazy infatuation with running around a field with a bunch of old guys for 20+ games each year, reliving our childhood dreams. It never would have happened if my own mother, way back in 1981, had not signed me up for South Natomas Little League, bought me a glove and some cleats, cheered me on from the stands for years, supporting me through every practice and game throughout my childhood. And even as a father of teenagers, my own boys probably found it amusing to think of their “old man” running around on a baseball field… but they supported me, played catch with me during the off-season, helping me fulfill my own dreams of playing baseball with my sons. So many elements and nuances wrapped up in a single slice of a moment in time, and I am thankful. So thankful.

So yes, after I returned to the dugout, I ran out to find that ball. I exited the ball field, through the old chainlink fencing and around the back side of left field. I found it waiting for me about 60 feet beyond the fence. My mental geometry calculations went into effect, and I knew that the fence was marked at 353 feet near the place where the ball left the park. I knew that the ball most likely rolled for at least 20-40 feet from wherever it landed, so I estimated that I hit the ball about 370-390 feet. Maybe longer, but probably not. So, I split the difference and settled on estimating that I hit a 380-foot home run.

Why is any of this important? I know why. It comes down to a quote I memorized a few years ago.

“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

– Howard Thurman

The older I get, the less I seem to know. But I do know this… baseball makes me come alive. Paragliding makes me come alive. Loving my family and friends, reading poetry and philosophy, learning about science and nature, visiting art museums, playing my guitar, working with nonprofits that serve at-risk communities and refugees, going on adventures… These all make me come alive. I want more of this.

I pray that each of us finds what makes us come alive, even if it is just watching a bird on a branch and feeling the wind on a spring day. It is all beautiful. It is the stuff of life. It’s all worth it.

*postscript: apologies to all my friends over 50 who don’t like the word “old”. As for me, I embrace my status ; )