Curious Rites (& Dreams) of Springtime

Spring time haunts those of us raised with a particular arcane religious practice. Maybe Roger Kahn captured it best:

“The first dream, full of innocence and light, is to play the game. . . . To play the game superbly. To play with such a brilliant, sunlit, morning grace that the dream itself leaves you at length, like Caliban, able only to speak in fragments. ‘The clouds. . . would open and show riches/Ready to drop upon me. . . .'”

So I’d take the field, a tragic combination of steadfast devotion and woefully limited skills. . . and play the game. Anyone who was a mere spectator probably felt boredom or–even worse–pity.

Ah, but to play the game. . . At times each spring, if only for an instant, it was as if I moved among the gods themselves. Then, just as quickly, a bobbled grounder or a missed third strike would banish me to the earthly realm. But still, to play the game . . . it kept the dream intact and glorious. . . if ever remote.

Anybody want to have a catch?