Achiever memories

2020 DM Finals

 

Gleaning meaning from the gleaming autumn light

 "That final upflare of stubborn and dying summer upon which autumn, the dawning of halfdeath, had come unawares" 

- Faulkner, Light in August

Breathe through your eyelids and take it all in. Those melancholic moods triggered by an ever-paling midday sunlight struggling to shine through gathering grey clouds as thin and wispy as the yellowing leaves of birch trees auguring another halfdeath, another decline. 

A reminder of what the fall used to feel like back home, full of brisk bright crispy air ripe for running with the ball, back to school, new classes, new friends, new teachers to tease, new tunes to play on a tape deck in need of repair, sleeping in on weekends, free from the summer job, dwelling on getting that girlfriend, getting laid, breaking free while still broke, learning to toke, dance, and party. Having fun. 

Forget about baseball. The dog days of August long gone, college football's pageantry and the patriotic pull of the NFL now take precedence on weekends. 

You tried to fight it once, fight the oncoming fall. Clutching on to the summer pastime long past its prime, your oldest friend going along with your hardball glee agreeing to play catch in the park downtown after sharing in some shrooms. Having a catch in the waning daylight, menacing clouds started to swirl in the distance and along comes a father and son to play with the pigskin on your grounds, on their terms; it is their season. You sense this. Yet, you resist the transition from baseball's gentle summer ease to the tough and rough rituals of a toxic masculinity, refusing to give ground to the brutish game and its aggressive acolytes. Flinging flyballs to my friend, chasing down the return throw and flicking the glove out at the last second to feel it plummet right into the pocket. A playful grace, effortless; short sprints and soft hands...long, bounding strides belie a stylish elegance and perfect timing. Side-arm throws. Grounders. Backhand stabs. The shoestring catch. Shagging flies with a crow's hop thrown in for good measure. 

We're staying right here and we're playing baseball. The father and son and football encroach further upon our sacred ground. Menacing looks are exchanged.

The ominous clouds overhead portended confrontation, conflict, disaster. 

But then the magic of the mushrooms sends us peacefully on our way, to a Jamaican jerk party, where we bestowed an entire case of Hercules IPA upon the party guests, much to their delight.