When the Phillies won the NL East on Sunday, my mom cried. What you may not know is that my mom is a hostess (usher) at the ballpark. She was crying while standing in section 123/124 behind home plate. Other fans were taking pictures of the crazy usher in tears when the Phillies won. What my mom tried to explain to people is that this is what her family is about- this is who we are. She told someone "we're Catholic and we love baseball." I would add that we have incredible enthusiasm for Broadway musicals and innumerable holiday traditions, but in essence, she's right. This is what we're about.
It's very difficult to explain to other people how much something means to you and why. I finished reading Ann Patchett's new book Run this morning. A passage that I read last night has stuck with me because it captures this idea. It's so challenging for someone else to understand why something is so special to you because they haven't lived your life. They don't have your memories.
In this passage, Tip, a senior science major at Harvard is entertaining an 11 year old girl he has only known for one day. They are in a lab where millions of fish species are preserved in jars.
He took her to the single jar he loved above all others, a jar that he had found himself one night a year ago when he had finished putting things away and was simply wandering, as he was prone to do, and looking at what was there.
The jar indicates that this species of fish was discovered by Henry David Thoreau but when Tip shows Kenya the jar, she doesn't recognize the name.
She wanted so much to undersand why this was important, why these fish were his favorites when there were over a million to choose from.
"He studied nature," Tip said. "All of nature. He had some pretty revolutionary ideas about how men should live. I used to study the fishes in that pond and I used to read Thoreaus's books, so when I found these fish that he had caught"-- He stopped. His explanation captured nothing of what was important.
"That makes sense," she said, lending him encouragement. "You liked the same things."
Tip nodded, but it was more than that. It was Doyle sitting on the shores, cutting up an apple with a pocketknife for the three of them to share, it was Doyle praising Tip for remembering the difference between the sunfish and the crappie. It was the beautiful water, clear and cold even in the summer. Tip watched his own feet stepping carefully between the rocks, and kept an eye on Teddy's feet because Teddy was dreamy and more likely to fall. All of that, and then the picture of Thoreau turning over his own cuffs and stepping into that self same water, living a life of studied isolation and yet still taking these fish, these very fish that he held, back into his cabin for study.
I feel a little like Tip when I try to explain what the Phillies mean to me.
Harry Kalas is the voice of summer. The voice of sitting in the yard. Of just returning from the beach. Of my Pop having a beer.
Sitting in my grandparents living room, pressing the baseball shaped button on the plaque commemorating Mike Schmidt's 500th home run. Hearing Harry the K say: “Swing and a long drive!!…There it is!…The career 500th home run for Michael Jack Schmidt…”
Sitting with my sister Cathy at double headers when we were kids playing clapping games when we were bored, cheering for Lenny Dykstra who, for some reason, we used to call the guy next door or something equally silly.
My mom calling me a few years ago after getting the job as a hostess and telling me that this was her dream job.
I love the Phillies. I love them like they are my own family. They are in my memories. Summer afternoons. Vacations at the shore. Long car rides listening to the commentary on the radio.
I love the Phillies and I hope they win today.
Recent Comments