This afternoon was my last practice as a Nottingham Thief. It turned out to only be a 20 minute game of catch, but you know, that's alright. It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect for a ballgame. I was sort of sad that my friend Lynn wasn't there. She's our resident girl/Chicagoan/second basewoman who I sort of clung to, being a sympathetic American. But alas, she was off in town. After throwing the ball a bit (I threw really well), we retired to the campus bar for a pint (or two... or three) and some baseball talk. Since a lot of the guys are either Yankees or Red Sox fans, there was a lot of ribbing about the spectacular failure that has been the Yankees' season thus far. I proudly mentioned the Twins' recent sweep of the ChiSox, their beautiful new outdoor ballpark being built, and their two World Series championships. I also brought up the prospect of them retiring my number. I at least have the satisfaction that it will be retired for a year. Then I dramatically said my adieus and biked off into the sunset.
Last summer, I got very excited about the prospect of playing softball in England. "Yes," I thought, "a chance to relive my glory years in a way that demands less physical skill and time commitment!" The baseball team seemed much too intense. Three training sessions a week? No way. Plus, I still had nightmares of 95 MPH fastballs screaming STRAIGHT TOWARDS MY FACE. As I realized that softball would not fit in my schedule, but still desiring to relive my youth, I meekly signed up for the upstart baseball team, practically convinced that I wouldn't stick with it. Although I had attempted to build up my arm the previous summer playing catch in the park, I realized upon going to the first practice that I was woefully inadequate in nearly every category. Throwing? No velocity, no accuracy, and I couldn't play catch for 15 minutes before my elbow felt like it got ran over by a bus. Fielding? Couldn't field a grounder to save my life. Hitting? Let's not even talk about it. Besides my freshman trombone experience at Luther, I don't know if I've ever felt so out of my league.
I was out of my league then, and probably still am. But I kept going to practice. I went in the sun, rain, sleet, and wind. We practiced sliding in the mud, stealing bases, and leaping for fly balls. I got hit in batting practice, had bruises all over my body from passed balls off the grass, and my right arm seemed to continually hover somewhere between falling off my body and exploding. God knows how much £££ I put into cleats, the uniform, practice clothes, and whatever else. It took up roughly 5 hours of my week, plus transport time. I probably have left a rut in the pavement where I biked to practice every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. But man, looking back, it was all worth it.
Baseball in England, it seems like such a bizarre concept. You can't think of anything much more American than a ballgame. But the people here who play, those who showed up to our sometimes sparse practices, they love this game. I was sort of amazed and mystified by this. Football, rugby, and cricket dominate the English sporting world. The only opportunity to watch baseball on TV is to stay up until 1 AM. The weather is completely not conducive to a ballgame. But still, the niche survives. Adam, our coach, stays up until 3 AM practically every night the Red Sox play to catch the game online. He studied for a year at the University of Virginia, saw a couple of games in Baltimore when the Sox played the Orioles, and was hooked. Returned to Nottingham and started a team.
Ever since my baseball career went on sabbatical at the tender age of 12, I've sort of shunned participatory sport. My focus turned to music, which it has pretty much stayed. But this year, the most gratifying thing I have done at university has been playing ball. It's really been one of the most essential elements of my year. It felt good to be a part of a team. It felt good to feel like I was in some tiny way representing this school that for the most part was large, distant, and disconnected. I actually met a fair amount of people, from all over the world. I learned how to wear my socks up high so that they wouldn't fall down. But most of all, it was just fun to play. I haven't played ball for so long, I sort of forgot how much I enjoyed it. Running out onto a field of green, feet anxiously waiting to spring forth to track down a long fly ball. It was like going back to 5th grade. When the uniform came, I sat around in the flat wearing it like an over-excited kid. When people weren't looking, I would practice my major league windup. It was fun.
I did improve as time went on. The powers that be were ever tolerant of my awkward throws and lame defence, and they slowly improved. I had the best attendance rate of anyone on the club. By spring, I had found my natural throwing motion to some extent, could put a good amount of speed on the ball, and made small strides in making better defense. I never was the best player on the team, nor was I the worst. But for whatever it was worth, I played as hard and as well as I could. A wise man who once played outfield for the Minnesota Twins (and who coincidentally also wore #34) taught me as a kid to always do that above all. Play the game the right way, and have fun. I think I at least did that.
So, a fond farewell to Adam, Lynn, Tats, Andy, Adam, Rowan, John, Khalil, Peter, Rod, and Matt. It was a blast.
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