Living the dream in Tucson

The only good thing about the bad news from Tucson last week was remembering the great things that happened when I lived there. Among those things was baseball.

For fourteen years I’d dart down to Hi Corbett Field with my friends for Cleveland Indians spring training games. While snot still froze in your nose up north, Tucson bloomed with warmth and light. We’d discreetly pass herb high up in the stands along third base as a gentle breeze shielded our sin from discovery. Mountains loomed beyond the outfield walls, the sky was the bluest of blues, and palm trees rose up vividly against them. An occasional U-2 spy plane from the Air Force base would silently circle the field and the crowd would tumble into awe. We’d drink beer in the hot sun and grab Mexican food when the game was over. The entire universe conspired to make every game perfect. I always wished it were my Detroit Tigers I was watching, but at least it was baseball. It was someone else's dream, but it was a good dream.  

I bumped into rookie Cory Snyder once, picnicking with his parents under a tree outside that park. It was so sweet and innocent, one boy in a million living the dream for millions more.  I chatted with Hall of Fame outfielder Frank Robinson when no one else was there and I tossed baseballs back to Hall of Fame pitcher Bob Feller as I walked around a practice field. He threw a ball back to me one day saying, “Keep it kid, you earned your pay.” I even taunted crusty old Cubs coach Don Zimmer--from a safe distance--and called him “The Gerbil,” just as Red Sox pitcher Bill Lee had done. He almost climbed into the stands after me. I guess it hit a nerve. 

I also discovered why some say baseball is a fantasy world. I’d peddled to the park on my mountain bike well before the game and there was no one there but a girl and myself.  She was obviously there to meet a ballplayer, any ballplayer, but it wasn't what you'd think. She was simply life itself. She was radiant, athletic, intelligent, and kind. She was beyond the reach of words. I knew I was nothing, still she spoke to me from her dream world as if I too were a part of her dream. She reminded me of Remedios the Beauty, from Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, who walks through the world untouched by its hazards, and is reclaimed by the sky while folding freshly laundered sheets. 

I was dazzled, and I knew I had to leave, because something sacred would soon happen here, and I did not belong. Captured by her fragrance, some worthy dreamer would find her and together they would ascend into heaven to fold laundry for angels who comfort children on deathbeds and young men on battlefields who are crying for their mothers.

I mean no disrespect when I say this, but baseball is as holy to those who know it as the Blessed Virgin is to those who have faith. I can't unravel the grace and mystery of baseball any better than I can unravel the the grace and mystery of faith. Both are gifts from God.

Scuttered by six or seven beers by the time the game was over, I biked down alleys all the way home. I was only jolted from my stupor as I peed on a wall by a rich man’s house. Above me the sun warmed my face, and around me angels swarmed, shielding my sin from discovery.