Dreams about Baseball

I keep dreaming about baseball. Ever since I stopped playing, I've dreamed about it maybe once, twice a week. It's not, I don't think, because I necessarily miss it, although I do on some level, but it's more than that. In my dreams, I'm never actually playing; my former teammates are always present and always playing, but I'm usually on the bench, on deck, or waiting to get in when the action happens.

Take the latest dream. I'm playing on a team with my old Bloomington teammates - Robert Leath, Mikey Skahen, Pat Finley, Paul Zipoy - and we're down 2-3 going into the late innings. I had been pitching, although I don't dream that part; I dream the part where coach takes me out, telling me he wants to rest my arm. Anyway, I'm slated to pitch again if the game goes into extra innings. I do, however, retain the spot in the batting order and in the bottom half of the last inning, I'm in the hole. There's always a fear in my dreams that I won't be able to find my batting gloves or my helmet, or that I'll miss my turn up to bat. Well, I do find everything I need this time and walk up to the dugout fence to watch Robert take his cuts. I'm still trying to decide whether I want to use the 31" or the 32" aluminum bat. I think I decide on the shorter one to quicken my swing and give me a better chance at making contact. Leath has grown up since I last played with him in real life - no longer is he the skinny, fast 13 year old. He now is a menacing presence at the plate. First pitch, he hits a looping liner that lands just foul across the right field foul line. He jogs back to the batters box and digs in for the next offering - you know he wants more than a looping line drive. Next pitch, he takes a belt-high fastball and rockets it over the fence. It's one of those balls where you don't even have to watch it leave the park - you know, based on the sound and the trajectory, where it's final destination is. There are two men on and we win the game. For some reason, a fan throws the ball back on the field and Robert picks it up as he rounds the bases. I go out and celebrate, secretly relieved I don't have to have a meaningful at bat. Then I wake up.

Rarely in my baseball dreams do I actually take that critical at bat or throw that critical pitch when the game is on the line. I'm always filled with the familiar feeling from my baseball days - not quite fear, but something deeper that causes me to secretly root for a quick ending to the game. Maybe I knew deep down what John Updike so elegantly stated, that in baseball, there is a tissue-thin difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill. Maybe I was afraid to fail, or afraid to take the chance.

I don't think I'm still afraid to fail, but my baseball dreams serve as reminder that I once was. A coach once said that I was the best batting practice hitter he'd ever seen. A compliment and a dig all in one. Fooling around in practice taking my swings or playing catch before games are my fondest memories. I loved the camaraderie and the tradition of baseball, but never the test of the game. I want to be sure that going forward, though I may never play a competitive game of ball ever again, I remember that preparation and skill only take you so far in life. Sometimes, to make your mark, you have to be ready to step up to the plate when it counts.