December 20, 2011
3 hours a day, five to six days a week, sounds like commitment to me. Four years ago, I was the kind of person who would eat, sleep, and breathe baseball. Not a second went by that I didn’t think about playing, or have a ball in my possession. The thrill of connecting with the ball right on the barrel of your bat, or hearing the slap of your glove when you make a spectacular catch, nothing could come close, for me at least. Call me crazy, but the field was my second home, I knew my way from first base to home plate better than I knew my the route to my kitchen, even though I’ve played on so many fields but have only had few kitchens.

I could tell you whether or not there was dew on the grass, the dirt had been dragged, or the lines had been laid from 100 yards away. Playing wasn’t just enough for me, I had to know everything and anything I could about the sport and its stage. Soon enough, I could tell which way a ball would bounce on dirt and could judge a fly ball from the outfield before it got past the pitcher’s mound, I guess you could call me a fanatic. Even the smell of fresh cut grass mixed in with cheap, low grade, dirt put me in a better mood.

The field never changes; there are four bases, surrounded by dirt, that form a diamond. In between them, a lone hump of dirt, the mound. Connecting the bases is a strip of white paint sprayed along the dirt, the base line. Let’s not forget my favorite place to be, the batter’s box, made with the same white paint to form boxes on either side of home plate.

I guess you could say, over time, I lost my spark for the sport and felt like I was getting older and there was more to experience and learn. If I would have seen where I would be now, four years ago, I would still be playing to this day. I pass the old fields where I used to play every day; I see the same bases, same grass, and same fences keeping out the nonbelievers.
Sometimes, I find myself parked outside of them, mere seconds from stepping onto the field trying to relive what past I had with her. Though I may be done playing and learning more about baseball, new generations and children will always inhabit fields. It’s hard to imagine the sport doing everything it did for me, for anybody that steps foot onto a field and falls in love. I guess that is why baseball is America’s past time; who knew a dirt infested plot of land could bring joy to so many people and so many generations. If you ask me, the world of baseball, is its own world.

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