What would Terrence Mann have written?

I told you that I’d write – I’d write the story of heaven and Iowa, of a field in the middle of no where, of a lure to the fantasies of youth that would put our souls at rest. What I saw was more than that.

I’ll write of baseball, and its promise: simplicity in return for closure, eternity for freedom. Throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball. A winner and a loser, no ties. I’ll write of the moment a son’s hand squeezes his father’s as he  sees the field for the first time. Of the moment a girl guns down a runner who made a wide turn at first. I’ll write about the warmth that surrounds the team which just pulled one out of the fire, and of the silence on the bus after a sure thing slips away in extras.

I will write about the all-American meal of ribeye steaks and a can of corn. I will share the hopes of every child who has picked up a glove and learned to keep his body in front of the ball. What I saw was the idea of baseball – the idea of playing as a team and backing each other up. Of hitting the cut off man because you can’t make that throw home on your own. I delved the mysteries of why not swinging is called “taking” the pitch and why the curve ball drops but the slider curves. I wandered in ghostly limbo not knowing where the next pitch would be coming from and I dreamed among dreams about the game that defined a country.

I sat around with the greats and argued the infield fly rule, the DH and aluminum bats. I learned the struggles of minor league ball and the elation when you get called up to the Show. Schooled on the dead ball era and shown the highlights from before video. I saw a country trying to find its feet, testing its wings and delivering a frozen rope across a diamond to beat the runner by half a stride. The pop of the catcher’s mitt and the shadows and swirling winds which turn a run of the mill pop up into an adventure.

I have felt the warmth that a home crowd can make you feel, no matter the temperature because baseball is a celebration of home. We strive to get there, and we celebrate with friends when we cross the plate. It wasn’t as much what I saw as what I understood, out there, somewhere beyond the corn. That baseball isn’t a game of cliches, it is a game of truths. The fair poll and the stolen sign, the risky lead off of first in an attempt to spark a late inning rally. Never giving up because a team behind in the bottom of the ninth still has every chance to succeed.

I disappeared into a field and found myself in the light shining down on a twi-night double header. I watched from above as outfielders shaded to the right and the catcher corralled a pitch thrown only 57 feet. I watched boys become heroes but stay little boys, playing a game that gives structure to existence, that turns ghosts into people and memories into reality.

I saw the promise of baseball, its failings and successes. Strikes, fights, scandals and war only sharpened our collective love of the game and we squeeze that last out with the love of a mother holding her son, returned from the battlefield.

I went with a team and discovered fathers, sons and brothers. I came back with friends who turned into legends before my eyes. I watched rookies pick up habits, good and bad, and veterans watch the next generation fill their shoes and more. I saw a game which is not a game, but a metaphor for who we are and what we have yet to achieve, a game that has grown and changed but still remained recognizable Baseball, as America, always changing, will forever be America.

And I came back, not because I did not value that time on the other side of the veil, but because I was pulled back by The Game, by the third base coach’s signs and by the vendor, imploring me to have some cotton candy. All the sights and sounds, the smells and tastes and the feelings of the baseball experience, whether one is watching or playing – these are the things that bring us together and which drew me in return to this field, this game, this ever changing, “now.”