“Life just sort of threw me a curve ball” was my sheepish reply. Larry confirmed, “Yes, life seems to do that, throw you curve balls, doesn’t it.” I stood there for a moment in silence, staring out the checkerboard windows in my home. Through the salt stained glass I could see the white wisps of sea water rolling over the reef in the distance. Behind me Larry, a grayed striking Italian man, continued through the upper register, listening for the subtle waves of intonation as he set my piano to 440. Something though was wrong. There was insincerity in the air, although innocent. The aphorism that had resonated here in my living room by one of the wisest edifices in my life, seemed feeble. It wasn’t a curveball, it wasn’t a fast ball, slider, sinker or the like, life does not throw any variety of pitches to trip us up, for it is those very pitches we long for. As I stood there, for just a moment, the foggy widows cleared and the shower of rays that danced on the great passive sea before me where just a little brighter.
I have played my share of baseball over the course of 34 years; a few local leagues, pickup ball, and the obligatory picnic throw-around, enough to understand the game. Although the sport has never nested in my heart, I do find that the camaraderie and teamwork fill hungry cries for friendship every soul longs to feed. So I bury myself in its strengths and eschew its drudgeries. There is one fact though, in this game of wood and wit, that can not escape attention. As I stand in the batters box, watch the pitcher, analyze his body language, critique his windup and release, I anticipate what junk he’s going to throw my way. From the sharpest mid eighties fastball that whistles by, to a lazy lollypop slider, I am looking for a pitch that suits my style. For me the curve ball is an ally. As a lefty, the deliberate inward decent of a right handed curve is like an old friend greeting me with a warm hug. I can almost close my eyes, as they often find a sweet spot in my swing. Sometimes the pitcher mucks an outside pitch to tempt me like a tasty delight just out of reach. Other times i find myself nearly chopping at the plate, as he drops a change-up. All these though, strike, ball, even a wild pitch, are all calculated. I am looking for them. I know what to do, how to swing, where to watch. One can suppose based on a relatively consistent standards how the game will play out. When the pitcher catches me looking, although outwardly dejected, on the inside I applaud his skill. On occasion the man on the mound becomes my partner, propelling a heater right where I want it, allowing me to bask in a moment of glory. It is a give and take, and it is glorious. No series of pitches can ruin a game, provide challenge maybe, but a sport without challenge is like a field without players. As it turns out it is the untrammeled defiance of the order that corrupts the game.
There are a few games that I work to strike from memory. Games where having stepped up to the plate, analyzed the pitcher, anticipated the trajectory, I have watched the ball whirl by, ending with the satisfying and distinct clap of tight leather. Then, on the brink of congratulating myself for picking up on an outside pitch, or knowing that this snipe was going to hang above the wrists just too long, then it happens. “Strike!” the Umpire barks. “What the hell!” I bleat, but only in an inner voice. Gathering my composure I brood, “don’t look back, don’t give the satisfaction.” Maybe the catcher had framed the pitch just well enough to get the approval of the umpire behind the plate, or “Blue” as we call him. One pitch, not a problem. The next salvo is fired my way, this time a fast ball, just grabbing the inside corner of the strike zone as it snaps past me. “Good pitch” I think, just as I hear a late and lazy, “ball” roll from behind me like from a magical fairy of equality providing balance to the universe. I smirk; deliberately catch the eye of the pitcher, knowing his frustration as he kicks on the chalky dirt. Looking back I applaud, “good eye Blue.” This still is part of the game, the mental jostling that comes with slight variables in each field arbitrator’s eye. This is the finite distinction that provides spectators the satisfaction of occasional flair ups, dirt kicking, nose to nose saber rattling, this still is part of the game. But then everything changes. Three more pitches cross the plate, strike, ball, strike. In my mind though clearly ball, strike, ball, respectively. At this point my inner voice has erupted into a fire storm of vituperative and anathemas. No longer is this a game of baseball; no more is there probability, reason, or rule. This is now the random denunciations of happenstance. I no longer know what to swing at, when to hold up, or even where to stand in the batters box. The entire game has been turned on head. And here we have the phenomenon of the Blind Blue. The moment where baseball, a game of skill, near spiritual dexterity, a game of wrestling minds, is reduced to a ride dictated by the arbitrary calls of circumstance. It turns the players into unwilling passengers on a crooked pendulum.
In each game in our season of life we grace the plate many times. We jostle with the eight men before us and one behind. We invite the challenge, pass up the balls, and a few strikes, we hit some, we miss some. Some of the many opportunities we see are curves, that is the game; at times we connect, others glance our failed attempts, some we just watch float by, all of them though we invite. We keep a keen eye out for the fastball for if we draw wood those are the moments of ephemeral sublimity, if we fail we marvel at the power of the sport. This is life. There are rules and constants that we thrive on, a strike is a strike, a ball is another chance. We applaud the challenge, we live the game. On occasion though, we enter the field, we are pinned to the plate for nine innings, and we take our turn facing the unforeseen or arbitrary. These are the games where we can wildly swing or watch life go by, regardless there will be no reason. The great Blind Blue will dictate the outcome for those games, the dice will roll, the clock will tick out of time, and we will acquiesce. There is no fighting it, there is no reasoning with it, it is a moment in a season and since that is the game we are given, we play.
“Maybe it was Blind Blue.” I mumbled as if talking to the sea. Larry continued in silence, finding the B just a little flat. Maybe he heard me, maybe the notes occupied his mind. Regardless, at that moment I realized, there in my sun bleached living room, before a sea larger than comprehension, that the ninth inning was in its last out. I had been wrestling with the Blind Blue for nearly a game and had been swinging like I had a part in the outcome. Swinging at futility, blaming it on the curves and watching the strikes. A new game will start for me tomorrow, and the umpires will have fresh faces. The game will be played as it was designed. Although I will see the same arbitrary arbitrators later in my season, next time I will know to watch the game and not identify with the outcome. Next time I will not blame myself for the Blind Blue.
