Those Days are Gone Forever, But I Can't Let Them Go (#71)

Reflections on a summer past time.

Nobody on the road
Nobody on the beach
I feel it in the air
The summer's out of reach

The blue jay, a staple of my backyard - seen here snatching a whole shell peanut when the early spring still had sparse offerings. (Bryn Robinson, 2023)

I spent many hours each summer on the baseball diamond.

I played, but only by default. When you don’t have an arm¹, your career behind the plate has a clear and firm endpoint. It also means, to make a team, you do what you can - and as the sole person usually willing to don the pile of sweat-infused catcher’s gear each inning and squat perfectly still for minutes at a time, I had an opening.

Despite loving sports, most of my athletic career was a wash like this. I wasn’t the worst, I was never the best, but I was competitive as all hell. Not at others for messing up as I often would, but about my own performance, and our team’s ability to reign victorious.

It’s probably why I was only ever somewhat successful at running. The only person you really have to best in a race is your mind, and the rest sorts itself out from there.

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I never will forget those nights
I wonder if it was a dream

Feed me more peanuts, woman, and tell me I’m pretty. (Bryn Robinson, 2023)

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No, the bulk of my summers at the baseball field were spent in/on/under the bleachers, watching my dad pitch in the local “fast-pitch” softball league.²

There would be huge swaths of time - in between Dad’s time on the mound or at bat - with nothing to amuse. (While I liked sports, my younger self preferred to do rather than to observe.)

So the time would be filled: Playing/fighting with my younger sister. Rereading the comics and other books lining the back seat of the car, often dog-eared from the elements and frequent use. Scaling the bleachers to the top, or squatting to draw in the pale chalky dust that always lined the space underneath the seats. Writing letters of complaint to Dairy Queen for changing the formula of their cookie dough in Blizzards.³ Eavesdropping on colourful conversations in the dugout or at the after-game tailgates, giggling at the things I wasn’t supposed to hear until I was scolded to get away from them.

When I was a teenager and still was drug along happy to watch, I’d sit in the car and listen to the radio while the post-game festivities carried on; taking the opportunity to catch up with the latest tunes, yet also willing Dad to finally stop talking so we could go home.

Overhead, the warm summer skies would melt from cobalt to indigo, and giant moths would pester the floodlights over the field. As July melted into August, the nights would cool, begging us to bring a sweater in case the game, or the tailgate, ran long.

A tease that, again, summer was waning.

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A little voice inside my head said
“Don't look back, you can never look back”

Teamwork makes the dream work, boys. (Bryn Robinson, 2023)

There are other bat and ball sports out there. Cricket. Rounders. But growing up in North America, you played - watched - baseball and/or softball.

In Canada, you used to have two teams to cheer for, but the Montreal Expos were already on life support by the time my interest was piqued. So I paid attention to the other Canadian team, the one who Dad watched at Exhibition Stadium and caught a home run ball (which sat in his home office among random softball trophies⁴).

“We know that several teams used the name of birds,” [Dr. William Mills] told the Toronto Star. “Baltimore Orioles and St. Louis Cardinals. And we thought the name should have the color blue in it, so we settled on Blue Jays.”
Here’s how the Blue Jays got their name (Matheson, 2021)

I say paid attention, because at this early age, I wasn’t a hardcore fan of any sports team - again, wanting to do rather than observe. But I gave enough of a damn to stay up with Dad to watch both the 1992 and 1993 World Series wins by the Toronto Blue Jays.

I still get goosebumps watching the call with Joe Carter’s walk-off home run in 1993.

It’s that feeling - elation, pride, accomplishment - that spurs on so many of us, regardless of skill level.

Why a barely-mediocre catcher would still lace up behind the plate.

Why a carpenter spends hours refining a pitch for accuracy and speed, and dislocate shoulders in the process, and still keep coming back to the mound.

Why a father and his daughter would stay up late on a school night to watch complete strangers reach the ultimate prize in their field.

We all just want a chance to soar, I guess.

Don’t worry - they know they’re magnificent. (Bryn Robinson, 2023)

I can tell you, my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone.

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1. See previous post, when I was banned from centre ice activities as a mascot because I couldn’t clear the boards:

#41: Making a Splash

2. This is the version of softball where you throw whip pitch. As opposed to slo-pitch with its’ characteristic higher arc, you’re aiming more for a straight line across the plate, and at bruising speeds.

3. I was particularly incensed at what I perceived to be the use of carob chips over chocolate, and felt my petition was justified. My parents would not let me send it.

4. Clearly, not mine.