It’s baseball season! This season’s first pitch was delivered by a Beep Ball enthusiast. “We’re forming a team,” he told me. “Want to join?”
“No, but thanks for asking,” I replied. “Seems I spend half my life bent double at the waist, feeling the ground for what I need but can’t see. What makes you think I want to make a game out of that?”
“But the ball beeps,” he persisted.
“So does a garbage truck backing up and I avoid that too,” I said.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” he said and walked away, or at least I think he did. I felt alone, which reminded me of golf.
I once joined the Blind Golfers Association. Walking home from the thrift shop with my new, gently used golf clubs, my neighbor-turned-heckler shouted, “You must have one heck of a slice. The eighteenth fairway is four miles east of here.” I never got the chance to prove him wrong because I never found a sighted golfer to pair with and I donated the clubs back to the thrift shop.
Maybe I’m fated not to return to the playing field. I have my own take on spectator sports. I’ll just harness Randy and hike over to Wrigley Field. We’ll hang outside the ivy walls along with determined and desperate Cubs fans. The view’s not so great from Sheffield Avenue but my old transistor radio describes the action just fine. And I might not circle the basepath like I once did but I can walk eighty blocks round trip between home and Wrigley. And I might watch baseball with my eyes closed but I know for a fact that, on that close play at second, the ump missed the call. That’s not everyman’s version of fantasy baseball but it works for me.