On this day I complete my 31st year, as Lord Byron might’ve said.
Of course, he lived to 36 and not much longer.
And I don’t know if he ever played a game of rounders.
If thou regrett’st thy youth, why live? he said.
But my youthful lament was that I never could catch a home run ball, or even a foul ball.
It’s something I wanted as a child, to be singled out in the crowd, and to raise my hands in triumph.
I could show people how hard I worked at playing catch.
I would try to make it look as exciting and dramatic as possible.
I practiced enough: My brother often ran into the woods across the road to retrieve my knucklers, and he hit me with errant curves more than once.
Perhaps if I could stand in the bleachers above the centerfielder, and reach at the sound of a hit.
I would never interfere. No, no.
But I would make the catch, and I would be cheered, no matter what team scored a run.
Is this what it is like to root for Chicago? It is better to dream than to do?
I don’t suppose I will sit much this year, though I do intend to wonder.
But this year, may I reach beyond my grasp, as I am wont to do.
And may I have a ball.
(Jan 14, 2016)
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