The Game

You cry to me on the phone,

Everything’s gone wrong.

He’s hurt you,

Broken up with you.

And you still don’t understand why.

You experience the worst pain

You’ve ever felt,

A stabbing knife

Straight to your still beating heart.

No one will ever love you again.

No one will ever be as good to you

As he was,

But no longer is.

What if you never find such a

Great love,

Ever again.

What then?

How did this happen?

It’s a mystery and nightmare,

Wrapped in one

Throbbing ball of pain.

You miss him.

He was not only your true love,

But also

Your best friend.

What are you going to do with yourself?

All alone and lonely,

Life is now over

At the tender age of twenty.

I tell you

There will be many more boys.

Time heals all wounds.

Broken hearts will mend.

Life goes on.

Yada Yada,

Et cetera, et cetera.

Ad nauseum, en infinitum.

Yeah, Mom.

I know,

All mothers

Say that.

But still,

That doesn’t

Make me feel

Any better.

I know honey, I know.

I struggle to find 

The right words,

Because I know 

How much it hurts.

I know that nothing I say

In that moment

Will make you feel better.

So I just try to listen

And spout my meaningless platitudes,

Hoping that you find comfort

In something, somewhere.

If nothing else

Take comfort 

In the timbre

Of my voice

Holding you close

Over the telephone wire,

Sending a virtual hug.

Reach out and touch someone,

That old commercial said. 

You beg to come home from college,

Just for a day.

To get away,

Escape,

Run from your problems

Lick your wounds,

In Peace.

Maybe plot your revenge.

You’ll show him

There’s plenty of fish

 In the sea.

Atta girl.

Pardon me,

While I mix my animal metaphors,

As I acknowledge that,

Of course, 

The baby bird needs to return

To the nest

When it first learns to fly

And sometimes

Crashes on hard ground.

Let Mother take 

Baby bird back

Under her maternal wing,

If only for a brief moment,

Until the chick learns to fly high again.

So you come home,

And we talk,

And sit in flimsy lawn chairs

Huddled under fleecy blankets,

On a cool Midwest spring day,

Drinking our Starbucks coffee,

Watching little brother play his baseball game.

Only, he is not playing,

He is riding the bench.

While his friends,

Those “other boys”,

Chomping on bubblegum, sunflower seeds,

Chugging Gatorade in all the colors of the rainbow,

Those “other boys”

Hit singles, doubles, triples,

Even thundering home runs.

Until little brother finally, blessedly

Gets put in the game,

Gets that precious “at bat,”

He swings with all his might,

And misses,

But finally connects,

I hold my breath.

Say a prayer,

In fevered anticipation and hope,

Fingers crossed,

But he pops up the ball meaninglessly,

High in the air

In foul territory,

Where the catcher

Immediately catches it,

With a soft gloved squeeze,

Barely a thunk.

I see the disappointment

Etched in his face,

His cleated feet dragging as

He trudges back to the dugout.

Later in the car,

He is quiet,

Despite my promises

Of chili dogs and Dairy Queen ice cream.

I ask him how he is doing,

And tell him he made a 

Good play at third base,

When he was finally put in the game.

I don’t know

 If he believes me.

All mothers talk that way,

Don’t they?

But the dam finally bursts, 

He tells me

How he feels

When he never

Gets playing time.

How he feels

When he never

Gets on base.

How can he ever learn to hit the ball

When he never gets a chance to swing?

In the field of dreams,

His dreams of baseball glory are

Rapidly withering and dying.

Like dried corn on the stalk,

My heart splinters again,

For my other baby bird,

Still in the nest,

Just beginning to learn how to fly.

As his mother, I hover close

Hoping he gets his chance to swing,

But knowing

That when he does,

There will be many misses,

Heartbreaks,

Disappointments,

Bumps in the road,

And falls,

Hoping he always finds

A soft place to land

My mother always said

Being a Cubs fan prepares you for life,

There is even a song called

“The Dying Cubs fan’s last request.”

“Do they still play the blues in Chicago

When baseball season rolls around?

When the snow melts away, do the Cubbies still

Play in their ivy-covered burial ground?”

I always thought that song was morbid.

Its author later did die

And they surreptitiously sprinkled

His ashes at Wrigley Field,

So legend says.

Yes, sometimes we win,

And sometimes, we lose

Painfully,

Like we’re buried alive.

Or with our ashes scattered to the wind

In our personal Wrigley fields.

But the important thing

Is still playing the game.

With love.

And pride.

And hope. 

So hold your head up high.

Keep swinging, my son.

Even the biggest ones

Sometimes miss the ball

Or fall.

I think of Casey at the bat:

“Oh, somewhere in this favored land

The sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and

Somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing,

And somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville –

Mighty Casey has struck out.”

If Mighty Casey strikes out,

What hope have mere mortals,

Nay, even the greatest ones don’t always succeed.

I wonder if Mighty Casey’s mother watched 

While her son played that day,

Hurting for him, but loving him fiercely

And trying to ease his pain.

When we lose,

There is no joy

In Mudville, Wrigleyville

Or anywhere in-between where

Baseball or the game of life

Is played,

But there is always plenty of love to go around.

That is something that will never be lost.

“So put me in coach,

I’m ready to play today,”

sang Mr. John Fogerty,

Put me in the game,

And I’ll swing for the fences,

And yes,

Maybe I’ll miss that ball,

Maybe I’ll go down swinging.

But I will always keep on trying,

"For it's 1, 2, 3 strikes you're out at the old ballgame ...."

References:

1. “A Dying Cub’s Fan Last Request”, Affordable Art, performance by Steve Goodman, Red Pajama Records, 1981.
2. Thayer, Ernest Lawrence, 1863-1940. The first book edition of Casey at the Bat. New York: Franklin Watts, 1963.
3. “Centerfield”, Centerfield (album), performance by John Fogerty, Warner Bros. Records, 1984
4. Norworth, Jack, et al. "Take me out to the ballgame", 1908.