march

The aging men, their bodies heavy with the weight of time, move as one towards the baseball field, their footsteps the sound of worn leather on concrete. They walk with purpose, with the familiarity of those who have made this journey countless times before. The sky above is a deep shade of blue. The air is dry and smells of dust and sweat, the scent of hot dogs and beer mixing with the perfume of freshly mown grass. They make their way to their seats, serenaded by the sharp sounds of the bats and the deep thuds of the mitts echoing through the desert.

The men sit deep in the shade, their seats carefully chosen weeks ago, for the heat that once invigorated them now feels oppressive, the sun beating down on their shoulders like a weight they cannot shake.

For them, spring training is a ritual, a pilgrimage, a chance to revisit a time when the world was full of endless possibility, when their futures were as bright as the Arizona sun. They are here to reconnect with the game, with each other, with the younger versions of themselves that still reside somewhere deep inside. It's a place where Joseph is still Joey, where Frank is still Franky and Michael is still Little Mikey, where they are Slugger and Speedy, Ace and Glove, Smiley and Stinker all over again.

They still buy the oversized greasy nachos, but they now share them, a small nod to their cholesterol-measuring physicians and ever-concerned wives and grandchildren. They now mix in an alcohol-free beer from time to time. But mostly, they do everything exactly the way they did last year, and the year before, and the year before that one. They like knowing what awaits them, the rare moments of certainty in the lives they long ceased to control.

They retell the same stories, their own game-winning homeruns turning just a bit longer every year, the dog in Mrs. Johnson’s yard more ferocious and Jennifer McNealy even more beautiful. With every pitch thrown in front of them, their joints ache just a bit less, their bodies move smoother.

By the fourth inning and his fourth beer, Little Mikey is on his feet.

“We could take these guys on, you know.”

The group nods in unison, their once-thick and dark hair now gray and thinning, their once-lean and muscular bodies now sagging and soft.

“Perhaps, not like the best ones. But these guys that are getting in now? The ones that have football numbers? For sure.”

He moves to the side, steps into the sunshine, and feels the heat charging him with energy.

“I mean, look at some of these guys. Eighty-three has a bigger belly than Mister Jenkins, remember him? Ninety-two is wearing glasses. C’mon! I’m sure they are all plumbers and geography teachers.”

Feeding off the approving murmur, Mikey is almost dancing now.

“Hey eighty-three! Eighty-three!!! You couldn’t touch my fastball! I threw ninety miles per hour in high school. NINETY-FIVE!! My change-up is too fast for you. I can tell you what pitch is coming, and you still wouldn’t touch it!”

Now winded-up, he sits back down. The beads of sweat form on his forehead. He’s panting for air. He feels the best he has in months.

“You know a funny thing about Tanzania?”

Speedy has traveled the world and he never lets them forget it. Of course, they know the funny thing about Tanzania, they have heard it every year for more than twenty years now. But they want to hear it again, so they dig deeper into their nachos, sip on their beers and turn their heads towards him.

“In Tanzania, they don’t start counting the hours of the day until the sun comes out. It makes all the sense in the world. Why start counting at some arbitrary point in the middle of the night? The day starts when the sun comes out!”

He makes a dramatic pause, meets everyone’s gaze.

“And you know what I think?”

They do. But they still open their eyes a bit wider in anticipation.

“I think we should do the same thing here in the US. But not with the day. With the YEAR. December and January are our midnight, the life starts now, in March. It’s when we awaken. This should be New Year’s.”

It’s hard to argue with him, not only because it would take the better part of the next three innings to stop him talking. When it comes to orating, Speedy is anything but. It’s because they feel the same way. It’s right here and right now when they draw a line, when they look at the balance sheets of their lives. It’s when they make promises for the future. It’s these March afternoons that make almost everything look possible once again, it’s the time to make resolutions, to pledge to see each other more during the year, to start doing more sports again, to spend more time with their grandkids.

March is the time when their lives once again feel like pre-season standings, where everything is set to zero and awaits wins and losses, great stories, both exhilarating and heart-breaking.

On the field below them, the kids yearning to be recognized as men are still playing the kids’ game. Their movements are graceful and fluid, and a deep sense of quiet nostalgia slowly sets among the group. Oh, what they would give to glide weightlessly between the bases just once more. To dive for the ball and jump back on their feet like a bouncy cat. To release a pitch with a heavy groan, to feel the power of blasting it by the overmatched batter.

They wonder what could have been. They ask themselves whether they had done enough. They realize it will never be enough.

It is the seventh inning already and each of the men is somewhere far away, in a world that either never existed or, at least, will never exist anymore. In the game, a tall and lanky kid is batting now. He swings and loudly meets a challenge fastball. The ball takes off, spinning wildly and soaring high into the desert sky, ever higher until it can almost not be seen anymore. But he just missed the pitch, cutting underneath it and sending the ball foul, back behind the home plate, into the spectator stands.

“I got it!” Franky screams, as he realizes that the ball is coming their way, snapping them out of their journeys down the roads not taken.

They all stir and jockey for the position to catch the ball. Suddenly, it’s the bottom of the ninth inning in their own lives, they are three runs up, but the Life has the bases loaded with two outs and tries to get them by sending one over the fence. They are all centerfielders now, quick and nimble, ready to jump at the imaginary fence, to collide with it with all their might, to do what it takes to make that one final catch.

The ball is coming down now, it’s bigger and bigger. Franky is standing, as tall as he ever was, his glove firmly on his outstretched arm. He is well positioned, and for a moment everybody is looking at him, his moment of glory well witnessed not only by his friends, but by the whole stadium. The ball finds its way into Franky’s glove, but as it does, he flinches just a bit, so the ball hits his palm and bounces out of it. Joey reacts quickly and tries to grab it with his bare hand, but he hits Slugger in the process, who in turn stumbles and sends both Speedy and his second serving of nachos flying through the air.

The ball is long gone, as is any balance any of the men still had. All that is left is a pile of entangled limbs on the concrete floor, with nachos and salsa evenly spread among them. For a moment there is stunned silence around them. But then, there is slow movement and a first, muted laugh from the heap.  The next one joins in, and then it’s a guttural concert of uncontrolled laughter.

“I think I heard something snap. God, please let it be my hip, I just bought a new iPhone!”

They help each other get up, healthy hips and all. They get a round of applause from the neighboring seats and they gleam, still high on adrenaline rush.

“Best spring training ever!”

As they make their way out of the stadium, the men still laugh, their memories and dreams blending together like an old song that they all know by heart. They know that they will never again be what they once were, that the game they love will continue without them, that time will keep marching forward. But they also know they will keep coming back for as long as they can. And maybe, just maybe, next time they will catch that foul ball.