I knew we'd be meeting a lot of his high school friends and their families at this alumni game today so I wanted to look, you know, hot! I threw on shirt after shirt as Sam paced around the house ever so patiently. I settled on cheetah leggings and lemon yellow wedges. Maybe I shouldn't have.
Growing up in my small hometown everyone knew everybody for the most part. Or at least we knew OF them. My school didn't have much diversity and I felt completely safe walking along the side of the streets at night. Stark difference: West Valley, Utah.
Sam excitedly led me around the grounds of Granger high in West Valley. We parked by annex buildings with rusted trailers next to some sort of scrap yard. There was an assortment of cars there already, a bullet bike, a battered grey Camry with flames, a new red Lexus, a white "kidnapper" van with the windows blocked out, and of course, our green '98 Honda civic. Sam chattered about this that, his voice deep with sentiment. I could tell he was really happy to share with me where he went to high school. High school is such a defining time in your life and honestly, I couldn't believe someone as kind and gentle as he could come out of a place like West Valley city. I could have been a tad dramatic, but the school grounds looked like a school shooting scene in a movie. That is until we rounded the bend to the brand new baseball field. Granger's most recent pride and joy. Deep green fields, shiny new bleachers and a brand new brick snack shack built right next to the old dilapidated one. This, I could tell was the focus of the school. Baseball.
Sam kissed me for good luck and jogged to the dug out with a certain spring in his step and a swagger in his shoulders. He was back. I chose a very unintrusive seat in the top left corner of the bleachers in front of what I assumed was home base. It was the very tippy top of the diamond at least. I had to pass some teenagers who were prepping the field for the game. I heard them whisper and collectively turn and watch me climb the bleachers in my heels. I had to smile. I've still got it!
A lady wearing a Granger high T-shirt and tennis shoes smiled up at me as she climbed the bleachers as well. She asked if I was Sam's wife. Good ol' Facebook, she recognized me right off the bat. She said she was the mother of a boy who was on Sam's team in high school and told me Sam was a "good boy", as the older generation of adults tend to call him. She gestured over where the men started a circle warm up game involving using a baseball like a hacky sack. They were in all shapes and sizes, but they were all hooting and hollering as if it were '05. My husband even had his baseball hat turned sideways. It struck me that besides today, you probably would never see this group of men being friends or having anything in common.
A latino girl with short shorts and a floppy hat eyed me down and chose a spot in the shade. I tried to smile at her but I couldn't catch her eye. I don't know why I felt so self conscious there. Maybe it was because I was definitely the only blond, and the only one wearing heels. The crowd swelled and the number of Granger shirts and baseball hats increased. There were boys with long shirts and chains, and pregnant girls with poofy hair and lots of eye makeup. There was also a little old lady to my left eating salt and vinegar chips and a baseball fanatic one row down from me that has probably seen a thousand games. I felt like an outsider.
I don't know much about baseball. I've gone to two Bee's games but I couldn't answer any questions about them unless it was about barbecue sunflower seeds, the most amazing hot dog I've ever eaten, or about the firework display at the end of the game. I was determined to watch this game and understand it so I could rattle off details to my husband on our drive home and thoroughly impress him. The announcer man announced: "Your olllllld team Ladies and Gentlemen!" and we watched a very mismatched team file out from the dugout. "And your youuuunnnng ones and ! Still dreamin', still dreamin'" A much more lively bunch came out onto the field. I spotted Sam's face shinning with excitement and glee. What a gather, (well actually I had to ask the baseball fan-man in front of me) is that depending on the year of their graduation the men were either on the old alumni team or the young alumni team and they would be playing each other.
The game started and music came on from above. The notes to a classical song confused me at first, and then the song broke into the chorus. "Bittersweet Symphony" by the Verve. I listened to the lyrics of the song and watched the men start playing. I looked around the crowd and I felt my heart warm as hot as my forearms which were frying in the sun. This was a special moment. A moment we all shared together. On this day we all had one common denominator: Granger High Baseball Where else would this strange crowd all be united together?
I listened to this group of ladies chatter about their days fundraising for the team, and the sacrifices they made for their sons to show their support. They still volunteer for the 2013 team. "Once a Lancer always a Lancer!" I heard them quote. Fathers, much older than normal were cheering on their sons from the stands. Trash talkin' the Ump and calling out plays to their boys just like every good father should. Except these men were 60 years old. I hear them catch their other baseball parent's up on their son's lives. Ryan "the Gunner" gun is married and now lives in his parent's basement. He used to be a killer short stop. Jake "the stringbean" has a giant red beard and is a computer programmer. None of the players had amounted to anything particular outstanding, but simply had moved on to adulthood. But that didn't stop the parents from bragging up their best plays or funniest sports moments. I stared ahead and watched my husband rock being that 1st base-tagger guy.
This announcer was born to entertain. Joke after joke, most involving things along the lines of hip replacements, Viagra, ice, and pulled hamstrings. He announced a man from the class of '67 step up to the plate. He took up a perfected baseball form and wiggled his bat menacingly. The 19 year old Mexican boy with no hat and baggy shorts from the class of '12 wound back and threw the ball callously. CRACK! I gave a "whoop" as this man in his mid sixties made it to 2nd base. He pumped his fists in the air as if he had just won the Quidditch cup.
Because they were all wearing Granger red, I could not tell who was on which team so half of the time I didn't know who to cheer for. Literally and figuratively. Who would I rather win, the 25-30 year team my Sam was on, or the man from the class of '67 who was still rocking those tight pinstripe pants?
All around me people are holding their own private conversations. We all collectively look up and cheer and clap. Children beg their moms for quarters to buy giant pixie sticks and treats. Adults hold extra large Maverick soda cups (there must be one nearby). They chat about their children, their lives, and whatever they might find in common. The two primary presidents to my right really hit it off. A guy runs up to the cage and slips his elderly mom his Iphone and demands she takes lots and lots of pictures. The mothers top each other with story after story of their children's success until I'm sure the pile will topple over and soon one of them will run out of things to say, but they don't. The kid's yell "Go daddy Go!" and fathers stand a little taller and wave back.
I squint in the sun and look for my husbands red long sleeve shirt. That's when I know to pay special attention. I don't know if he's a good player or not, but I know I love the way he crouches down ready to pounce at a fly away ball. He swats other player's bums as they pass for a job well done. I notice he keeps kicking his legs back and stretching out his two bad knees. Sweat drips down the back of my leg. We've been out here for two and a half hours now.
A fly ball sails over the chain link and the crowd yells, "Heads!" My face scrunches in terror and I lean as far to my left as possible even though the ball is probably 100 feet away. I just keep picturing the scene in "Simon Birch" where he finally hits the ball and WHACK! it knocks the mother dead and Simon yells, "I'mmmm soorrrryyyy!!!"
A lady with a blue scarf hat makes a scene as she enters in, calling out to people and stepping over bleachers. She is overly nice in a silky sweet voice that never has anything mean to say. For some reason, maybe it's because Sam is not on the field and I'm getting bored of baseball, she intrigues me. I listen in on her conversation. Children are climbing on to her lap and she turns down offers for a taste of their suckers. She is Jessi's mom and is sitting by his wife and kids. She points Jessi out to the lady next to her (see, already bragging up her son). I follow her finger and squint to see Jessi, a 30 something slightly overweight man. This blue hat lady keeps cheering things like, "Ok, enough chitchat let's play!" or "Come on, we're getting hot!" and "1 2 3 let's go!", which I find really rude considering a lot of them are older men who can not make spectacular plays or run very fast. I find it odd for her to yell these things when every other word she has chosen so carefully and kindly. And then it all made since. The blue hat, the blue veins standing out against her pale skin in the bright sun. She continued her conversation with the lady next to her and I heard the words "Pancreatic Cancer". She introduced her daughter-in-law to the stranger sitting next to her and explained that she was pregnant and she hoped that she'd live long enough to see her baby grand daughter. She wasn't going to come to the game today because she wasn't feeling well. She knew that she would only be strong enough to stay for a little while. I suppose that's why she was trying to hurry the game. I immediately felt guilty.
Jessi was up to bat. The woman stopped mid conversation and turned her focus on her son. She whooped and hollered and yelled until Jessi, a grown man, was squirming with embarrassment. She continued talked to the lady next to her, never taking her eyes off of her son as Jessi had two 'ball" errors thrown at him and got to re-bat. A son on Varsity football, one on JV, football, and 2 that played baseball, she had been to a lot of games. "This is probably the last time I will watch one of my boys play. I better give one last yell for him". She paused and yelled a fervent "GO JESSI!" and I heard her breath catch in her throat. When she spoke again her voice came out shaky. "That's a little hard when I think of it like that." I'm so glad my aviator sunglasses were hiding my tears. They mixed with sweat as a few of them ran down my face. Please Jessi, I prayed. Hit the dang ball.
As midday strikes the heat increases, the game drones on and the bleachers start to empty. The shade slowly disappears, pushing spectators and families further and further away. They huddle against the brick snack shack looking for any possible sliver of refuge. I'm still in the top corner of the stands, soaking it all in. I look and see the girl with the floppy hat also remains.
Sam hits the ball and gets to run. I'm so excited I forget to even cheer. I just watch with wide eyes, not wanting to miss a second. I fumble with my phone and take as many pictures as I can. I have one of him on each base. I know how much this day means to him. The game they play, they still love it.
The game ends and the group comes out and kneels together in the center of the diamond for a picture. The families that are left comment on each of the boys they remember from their son's high school team. The players don't know they are being talked about and reminisced upon. But it is all of us who are missing out. We are all just outsiders on this side of the cage, talking and observing the players within it.
I get up and stretch. My skin feels tight and hot and my clothes cling to me after sitting in the sun for four hours. A lady passes me with a hot dog. Seriously? WTHeck? Where was that 2 hours ago?!
I lean against the wall of the dug out in the thin shade and wait as the players file out holding commemorative t-shirts. I hear someone say "Those were great days man, I'd give anything to go back." I smile as "Eye of the Tiger" comes on. For a minute these men feel like champion boys again.
I kiss my husbands salty cheek. I am exceptionally glad to see him. I think it's because I learned a lot in those four hours I soaked in the sun and the environment around me. I learned about diversity and unity. I realized things that I have been unknowingly sheltered in. I'm beginning to understand what made my Sam turn out so great. He tells me we are giving "The Gooch" a ride home, a man with piercing and tattoos who walks with us to our car and talks with Sam like they were still in high school and their lives hadn't drastically gone in two separate ways. I'm quiet as I observe the people around me getting into their various cars, speaking their various languages. Each sound different, each person's life plays a different melody, but joined together for this one hot, hot Saturday morning we sound beautiful. A bittersweet symphony.
I don't know the final score, but I do know that one of those points was my husband's.
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