Nov 4, 2015

The Magic of baseball & Mikey

It was a magnificent day of baseball even though the University of Texas Longhorns were losing. While the rest of the crowd was in a funk, I was treasuring every precious second of what I knew would likely be the last game I ever attended.

It was 1994 and I was about to move away from my home and friends of 12+ years--three times as long as I'd ever lived anywhere at the time (Minnesota now holds that record at 15+ years)--to attend graduate school and begin the journey that led to my career as a college professor.

My dad had given me two season seats to Longhorn baseball for Christmas. He died a couple of weeks later before baseball season started. So, the games had always felt like a special time with Dad even though he wasn't really there.

I took a revolving group of friends to the games until my best buddy, Carol (not previously a baseball fan), discovered how delightful a day at the ballpark could be. Our friends Mike and D soon joined us with their own season seats.

Mike always listened to the games on the radio while sitting there watching them. My dad had the same habit while watching football on TV at home. He'd turn off the volume on the TV and tune in the game on the radio because the radio commentators offered a more vivid description. I never asked Mike why he did that, I assumed that I already knew.

I know that a real baseball fan would remember the name of the guy who was at bat that day (or at least the team he was playing for), but the magic of what happened next erased a few memories. Others are so vivid that I can still smell the chili-cheese dog of the guy sitting next to me.

I remember watching the batter knock off foul ball, after foul ball, after foul ball--arcing off over the first base line, firing back into the net behind home plate, pinging off the metal roof over the stadium--all on third strike pitches. He was going to hit something.

While I was rapt with attention, the rest of the crowd was talking about what to eat for dinner, whether to stop at the grocery, an irritating co-worker, anything but baseball.

Suddenly, while seemingly no one but me was watching, the batter fouled off another ball that sailed in sloooooooooow motion straight for me.

The whole stadium seemingly went silent in that moment as I watched the seams on the baseball spiral towards me. I'm positive I glimpsed "For Mary" tatooed on that ball.

For years I had wanted to catch a foul ball. Carol thought I was crazy because I could get hurt. So, we regularly practiced a drill--I handed her my score card and pencil, she ducked out of the way, I lept in front of her (to protect her), and I reached up to catch the foul ball.

But, Carol wasn't there that day. I didn't have my wing-woman.

Mike was there--sitting on the other side of her empty seat listening to the game on the radio.

I tossed my scorecard to the ground and heard the clink of the pencil as it rolled under the seat in front of me.

I stood up and cupped my hands straight in front of me. I didn't lean forward. I didn't lean to the right. I didn't lean to the left. I just stood up and cupped my hands.

No one else seemed to notice the foul ball but me. No one jostled me to try to catch it. I was alone in that moment--just me and the foul ball.

Then, in one utterly magic moment, the ball softly landed in the middle of my outreached hands. I didn't even chip a fingernail.

I stood in absolute awe for a moment. In an instant, the stadium suddenly burst into noise as I lept up and down screaming with glee and waiving the ball above my head.

As if that moment alone weren't joyous enough, the icing on my foul ball cake was Mike leaning over to me chuckling and saying "Hey, Mare. The radio announcer just called you a great ath-e-lete!"

That was Mike--a joyful, kind, and generous man. He could have just listened to the announcer, smiled, and kept that comment to himself. Mike chose to share it with me, adding to, and joining in my joy.

Mike did that everywhere he went. He spread joy and optimism. He was one of the most enduringly positive and exceedingly kind men I've ever met.

When I heard that my dear friend Mike died yesterday, this joy-filled moment was my first memory. I sat and smiled with tears in my eyes as I remembered it.

What a great legacy of a life well-lived and ended far too soon--that another's first memory of you is this magic moment.

They said it was a "heart attack." But, I don't think it was an "attack," I think his heart was just so full of love that it finally burst into light.

Godspeed, Mikey! Thanks for touching my life with your magic.