by Matt Thomas
My mother developed a passion
for the idea of it
and then convinced the others to play;
my dad built a rough diamond in the backyard.
At first the bats were sticks and the bases rocks;
we played in tennis shoes.
Over time the approximate things
made acceptable by exuberance gave way
to manufactured advantage:
colorful mitts and bats, training gadgets,
clay and Bluegrass; we took turns on the mower,
striping the field and debated equipment:
wood vs. aluminum, screw-in vs. molded.
The family wasn’t enough;
members were added to the team.
We played once a week. We strategized
at dinner; we shared each other’s pools
and backyards for team cookouts.
The weeks became long
between games. We added
a practice day, and then a scrimmage.
We memorized the rule book and studied the history.
There were quizzes for the kids, who collected
player cards, compared stats,
acted out the tragic season of the ’79 Yankees,
fought over who would play Murcer and Munson.
It was said that the game chose you,
but I felt coerced
by its inescapable presence.
I rotated through the positions,
capable but uninspired. I doubted
my ability to care about winning.
Occasionally a teammate, similarly
ambivalent, began to miss practice, and then
after a period of time disappeared altogether.
When this happened the team
was sad for them – a life without baseball!
They hoped for their return.
Eventually, unable
to make a connection, I too walked away.
I don’t miss it, but strangely,
like others I know who left, who were
formed as children
by those particular joys and sorrows,
I am from time to time drawn back
on rainy days to sit in the dugout,
walk the bases,
toe the rubber of the pitcher’s mound;
not hoping but willing
to be surprised by a conviction
that I could be persuaded to love the game.
Matt Thomas is an engineer, poet and fair-weather Nats fan. He published a full-length collection, Disappearing by the Math, in February 2024. He lives with his family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
