American Pastime

I used to live near Dodger’s stadium, close enough that I could see the big lights, hear the announcer’s voice, and sometimes even feel the ripple and hum of people in the stands. All this from my desk, where the only sound usually came from my fingertips at the computer after my kids fell asleep. When the games got rowdy, and they did a lot, there was a strange contrast between the interior of my little room and the exterior, especially when the droves of fans walked back to their cars. But I liked it. It’s hard not to be sentimental about baseball. It’s a game but it’s more than a game. Even if you don’t care about it, you know that much. There’s always a story and a history. There’s Joe DiMaggio and Jackie Robinson, the stolen base, the come-back kid, the low om of the crowd and the announcers on a transistor radio. There’s Babe Ruth’s pointing, Babe Ruth’s smoking. Babe Ruth’s name! I mean there's also endless tedium, the three up/three down, $15 hotdogs and blazing sun, there's disappointment and heartbreak and the long drive home.

But still.

You never know which way it will go. 

**

I remember one time hearing part of a game from my desk. It was late, maybe close to 10 at night, and something about the organ got my attention, ba-da-ba-da-bada CHARGE! And then again, ba-da ba-da bada CHARGE, and then still once more. It wasn’t the usual half-hearted, beer-soaked chant, there was something building, something was about to happen. There was a momentary hush and then, Crack. The fans erupted, and there was a roar so loud it took me right there to the middle of the crowd. Someone spilled a beer on me. We screamed. He hugged. We jumped up and down together. Then we eased ourselves back into our seats, wiping tears from our eyes, unable to close our mouths.

And then the same exact thing happened four more times.

**

The first person I thought to ask about it was my brother Pete. He would know. He knew about stuff like that. In my head he would always be the skinny twelve-year-old kid who brought his mitt to a game with the hopes of catching a fly ball; someone with unlimited energy and enthusiasm; someone who believed in miracles.

So, I called him.

But something was off when he answered the phone, his hello was quiet, deadpan. What’s the matter? I said. He told me that he didn't feel well, that a few nights before, he lay awake in bed at 3 am, unable to sleep, worrying about things. It got to the point that he had such intense pressure in his chest he couldn’t breathe, and he thought he was having a heart attack. So he called 911.

“A heart attack?” I said. This is a guy who jumped off bridges on a dare, who didn’t eat sugar or meat, who ran marathons, who never had even a puff of a cigarette. “That doesn’t make sense!”

“I know,” he said after a long pause. “That’s what the doctor said too”.

“What did you do?”

“I went to another doctor”.

**

Three o’clock in the morning is a time of exaggerated doom. Everything is large. The only solutions are either desperate or impossible. Sometimes I get up and go to my desk. Instead of wasting time trying to quiet the voices in my head, I listen to what they have to say. I am usually surrounded by a crowd: old loves, my grandparents, dead people I knew.  If there is a problem, we can work on it together; if it's a big problem, everyone leaves, “Bye bye. Later, babe. Good luck with that.” The only one who stays is the one guy I'm trying to avoid. He stands behind me and talks into my ear. "Hmm, what’ll it be? Regrets? Fuck ups, failures, flaws, illness? We got suffering, sudden death, drawn out death, dying alone, shame of not dying —so much to think about.” I can hear the spittle of his craggedy voice. He keeps it simple. He leaves nothing out. “You’re bad. You’re dumb. You’re fucked.”

“Enough,” I say. I have to get up, walk down the hall, shake a leg, shake my hands, my head. I have seen insane people walk down the street in the exact same way. I need serious help. Where's my third-base coach tapping two fingers on his sleeve and clapping three times to move me forward? Where’s my stadium crowd chanting my name?

“No one cares,” I hear someone say.

“Just go,” I say, my forehead against the wall. “Please.”

**

I called Pete again a few days later to check in. He was still low, still concerned about his health, still not sleeping well.
"Let's talk about something else," I said.
"Why?" he said.
I asked him about the night of the Dodger’s game and of course he knew.

The Dodgers were down 9-5 in the ninth inning with two outs  and a 3/2 count. This is the time most people start heading back to their cars. When they say oh well, or fuck that or what a waste. Two outs, three balls, two strikes! Even the batter must’ve been thinking about the showers, beer, retirement. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t giving up. He had made a decision. He watched the pitch, swung and knocked it out!

A tidal wave of sound erupted. It was so filled with the most magnificent unity and charge I could feel it inside my body. I looked out the window at the stadium and it was pulsing.

But it wasn’t over. It didn’t die down from there, because the next batter did the same! And the next two after that! It was 9 to 9! FOUR BACK-TO-BACK-TO BACK HOME-RUNS WITH TWO OUTS.

“I mean--”

“Yeah. Then they went into extra innings and the Dodgers won.”

“That never happens,” I said.

We were both quiet for a long time.

“Sometimes it does,” he said.

**

Most of us get used to carrying our problems or keeping them at a distance, but in our rooms in the dark, when things start to bubble up from way down deep, all signs point straight to Misery and Failure and Shame and Death, and nothing can be avoided. Even babies, with their perfect little bodies, uncomplicated lives and sweet smell, wake up at 3 am crying, needing to be soothed. Who is the person that wakes up singing, “Oh wonderous joy and heavenly world, I am so happy and great, I’m not afraid of pain and suffering and darkness and loss.” Let’s put him and his bed in the middle of Dodger’s Stadium. Let’s watch him and see what happens. We can sit in the blazing sun eating $15 hotdogs. We can wait.

when the unluckiest guy tells you he’s the luckiest, listen