Thursday, April 7, 2011
The coach would hit the balls out to us on the field. I liked being out there. I liked the other guys. I liked the smell of the grass and the blue sky overhead.
We spread out past the bases, waiting on that ball. But I was never very good with the “I got it!” I was always a little afraid of that moment when the ball might come towards me. I wasn’t afraid of the ball. I was afraid of not catching it. There was a better chance that I’d miss it than catch it. I could get to the ball, my hand eye coordination is pretty good, but no one taught me how to set myself, to be ready for it. You had to walk in the door with certain skills or you were quickly pushed to the sidelines and simply put up with.
I caught it sometimes. But, mostly, I fumbled the ball before dropping it. There was a certain clownish aspect to the whole thing. Fumbling was normal for me. Trying to get the grip. Trying to gain some control, but failing. That kind of peace and security is elusive. At least for me.
Later, I found out that fumbling was more of a football word than a baseball word. With a football, you have your hands. No glove. And the hands either get it or they don’t. You either complete, or you don’t.
I never much went for football either.
I’m just kind of a fumbler. I’ve fumbled a lot of things over the years. Goals. Dreams. Hopes. Ambitions. Friendships. Moments that could have mattered a lot more than they did. I just couldn’t get a grip. A lot has slipped through my fingers.
But while I still struggle with this, while I still fumble all the time, I have some peace because I know I’m held for eternity by hands that never fumble. Ever.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2011