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Spring crept in on its little cat feet, the temp hit 50 where I was, time to open the windows and let in the hopeful breeze and blow away the stale air of regret and dismay, time to make time to go out and see the world, which is out there, pleading to be seen.
Baseball season opened, the Yankees in San Francisco, and I hope I can see four or five games this year, and I'd love to make it to Wrigley Field in Chicago and Fenway in Boston, plus Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. I never made it to the old one, the House That Ruth Built, but the new one is a classic too.
As you get old, you declutter your life and toss things you don't care about, but baseball is a permanent pleasure. There is a story line to every game and also stretches of relaxation when you can think of other things, but the geometry is fascinating, so unlike football with the two herds of buffalo butting heads. The classic steal, the catcher's eye on the pitch but also noting the runner sprinting from first as he braces himself for the throw to second. And the double-steal, the runner on first heading for second, the long throw to second as the runner on third heads home.
At least once this summer, I'd love to see the classic triple, the ball hit to a far corner and perhaps bobbled, the fleet runner dashing, the base coaches windmilling him on. And if I am very lucky, the stolen homer. A fan is fortunate if you see three in a lifetime: bases loaded, two outs, and the swing and the long ball, the center fielder heading for the fence while calculating the precise flight of the ball, the distance to the fence and his own speed, and aware of his own skeletal fragility and the possibility of orthopedic disaster, all these judgments by a man in full gallop and timing his leap, left arm fully extended to snag the little white sphere that the first three rows of fans are standing with arms outstretched in hope of catching — and he hits the fence, ball in glove, lands on his feet, and trots toward the visitors' dugout — yes, he's on the visiting team, the fans in the stands are silent, sullen, hearts broken, as he trots along, but even they know deep in their hearts what a miracle this was.
I loved softball back in my thirties, slow-pitch, when I was the pitcher on a casual team of guys my age, and afterward we went to a beer joint and bought a few pitchers and sat in a couple booths and told jokes. We didn't know each other all that well, conversation was patchy — weather, Vietnam, the Twins — and then a subject would come up, such as Jean-Paul Sartre, and someone would tell a joke. How many philosophers does it take to change a light bulb? "Define light bulb." And the one about the student who got an A in philosophy by writing a paper proving that his professor didn't exist.
This string of jokes went on and on. A joke about a philosopher in a nudist camp and then a string of nudist jokes (A cold day in Minnesota and the sign at the nudist camp was: We're open but we're clothed.) and that led to one about the man who entered ten puns in a pun contest hoping one would win but no pun in ten did.
My softball days ended. I got too busy, gadding about, doing ten things at once, and that simple ceremony of connected jokes came to an end. Maybe because I was no longer in all-male company, or because I quit drinking — I don't know why it disappeared. Am I hanging out with too many liberals who regard all comedic references to women as offensive?
I miss telling jokes in the beer joint. I'm 83, I have a good life. I took a fall in January and busted a shoulder and friends are very nice to ask me about it but frankly it's not that interesting. It certainly isn't humerus either.
Garrison Keillor is an author and radio personality. His latest book is "Cheerfulness". Buy it at a 38% discount! by clicking here. Sales help fund JWR.