Timeless

Mom was a long-distance telephone operator for AT&T. Frequently at work, Mom would connect members of the local AAA minor league baseball team, The Rainiers, with family members who lived out of state during their phone calls. Quite frequently when doing so, she was able to coax some of the players she helped into free tickets for our family. I really enjoyed attending those games in my early teens.

The ballpark was called Cheney Stadium. It was about a fifteen-minute drive from our home in Tacoma, Washington. It had a spectacular grandstand with an immaculate field. The stadium was blessed with an above-average groundskeeper who was eventually recruited by The Mariners when The Rainiers finally became their farm team.

Before the start of the game, there was much to be appreciated about the field at Cheney Stadium. First, the dirt in the infield was smoothed by a screen that was pulled behind a small tractor; it was then raked and lightly watered. This created a dark chocolate color, with an extremely short life span, living just moments before succumbing to both cleats and evaporation. It was reborn once more during the seventh inning stretch, then bravely embraced its fate once again while experiencing its brief cycle of life. Next, while still damp and perfectly smoothed, the dirt obediently accepted an addition when the virgin white lines were laid. With the infield complete, it was time to gaze just beyond to the magnificently deep, lush green outfield without blemish. Having been perfectly cross-mowed, it was impossible to find an error before game time, after which the odds became much higher. All in attendance couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of temporary community, camaraderie, and the pride of being an American during the singing of the National Anthem.

I recall the pregame rituals and anticipation. After the last-minute warmups, the pitcher signaled for the catcher to throw to second base. The shortstop caught the ball ten inches above the bag, then briefly paused in all modesty to show the accuracy of the catcher’s throw before swiping a fake tag. Then, the ball was passed around the infield and then back to the pitcher.

Next came the hushed anticipation. A temporary uneasiness was shared by those in nearby seats, who were awaiting the casual friendships that would develop throughout the evening. We all had our fingers crossed in hopes of a victory.

Still . . . Then more, still . . .

The silence was broken by the husky voice behind home plate, letting his authority for the next two hours be known.

“PLAY BALL!”

Those two magic words broke the spell.

The crowd, each to their own, came alive as one.