Sports, like religion, offer these consolations: A diversion
from the routine of daily living; a model of coherence and clarity; a heroic
example to admire and emulate, and a sense of drama and conflict in which
nobody dies.
In baseball we begin and end at home. Home plate is not fourth base. Our goal in
this game is to get home and be safe. Home is a concept rather than a place.
Home implies safety, accessibility, freedom, comfort. It’s where we learn to be
both part of and separate. The object in
baseball is to go home, and to be safe.
When a runner charges home we lean forward to see the home
plate umpire slash his arms downward signaling that the runner who may have crashed
onto the ground in, in fact, safe. Isn’t that what we all want? I do. In my
daily life I want whatever is bigger than me and whoever is judging me to see
how fast I run and how precariously I slide and then to say, as I slip and
slide, “She’s safe!”
Those who believe, whose faith is strong, accept the umpire/God
at his gesture and stand up relieved. Some, like me, despite wanting it are
afraid to believe or struggle to trust. I have --over and over-- sensed the
“safe” signal, but I am unbelieving. I run the bases again, skidding and
scuffing. Again he signals, “Safe!”, but again I go to bat. What baseball
offers that life does not is the agreement that we will believe it when we are
told that we are home and that we are safe.
No comments:
Post a Comment