Baseball in December
going where grief calls
Just a note: I questioned posting this. In fact, I was angry as the words came out this morning. I want to write about more than grief. I don’t want to be the griefy girl. I am so much more than my losses. But the truth is, this is where my heart is right now & I know I’m not the only one. Sending love to everyone who is walking around with a little extra weight on their shoulders right now.
I once dreamed of broadcasting stolen bases and homeruns over the airwaves.
As I grew older, that dream fell by the wayside. Too abstract. Too male.
Instead, I settled happily for calling plays side-by-side with you–our own two man booth.
Baseball was religion.
The musty smells of August swirling with sausage, peanuts and stale beer–incense.
The collective suspension in breathing and time awaiting the call at home–prayer.
A championship after 86 years–bliss.
Religious holidays dotted the calendar.
Truck day.
Pitchers and catchers.
Opening day.
Home opener.
And if all went according to plan–a pilgrimage in October.
I wasn’t ready for you to shut off your mic and without you to add color, I walked out of the booth and closed the door.
Did I love the sport? Or did I love sharing it with you?
What do we do with these fragments of past lives as we continue to grow?
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“What do we do with these fragments of past lives...” 💔 keep writing, Maggie, even (especially) the griefy bits
I hope someday down the road you reintegrate this fragment because I miss talking baseball with you- and often need a game date!