Sangfroid
Oct
21 2022
The
phenom stands tall,
looking
far too small
out
on the green manicured grass
of
a vast right field.
There
are no shadows
under
the bright stadium lights,
nowhere to hide
from the demanding gaze
of
the hometown fans,
but
then he's always been
the
centre of attention.
And
as happens in baseball,
where
sudden bursts of action
punctuate long spells of tension,
the
ball's in play.
I
watch him accelerate
with
the long smooth stride
of
a cheetah in its prime,
before
he leaps flat out, hand extended
and
snags the game-saver
in
the soft leather webbing
at
the end of his glove,
holding
on tight
as
he comes down hard.
A
snow cone, the colour man nods,
as
if it wasn't summer
and
scorching hot.
Then
calmly gets to his feet,
brushing
himself off
and
adjusting his cap
before
tossing the prized ball into
the stands;
casually,
off-hand,
coolly
ignoring
their
wild adulation
I'm
not nearly as athletic
could
never hope to be.
Not
to mention far too old
for
a baseball career.
But
I so want to emulate
his
impassive sangfroid
in
my mundane civilian life.
No
swagger
but
no self-doubt,
no
grandstanding
humble-bragging
pandering
to the crowd.
A
gracious gesture
with
nothing expected
of anyone in
return.
A
gifted young man
who
respects the game
and
understands its culture.
And
a rapidly ageing man
who
always played badly
and
hasn't many fans.
But
wishes
that
when his time comes
he,
too, will walk off the field
with
such cool aplomb
and
internal satisfaction;
coolly
tossing the ball
over
a shoulder
and
exiting the field of play.
Perhaps
a subtle nod
a
tip of the hat;
but
no backward glance,
no
unbecoming display
of
emotion.
This
week's column from Garrison Keillor was the inspiration for this
poem. That, and the fact the baseball playoffs are going on.
His
closing paragraph was a particular pleasure: our shared love not
only of baseball, but of semicolons! I also had a big smile reading
In another ten years, that fielder will be a civilian, like you
and me. So I shamelessly appropriated "civilian", and
can only hope this acknowledgement lets me off the hook for grand
larceny!
Although
I don't see the ball toss as an act of "cool disdain".
Rather, I see it as an act of genuine humility, as well as a gesture
of respect toward the fans. Who, after all, pay his very generous
salary!
Less
is More: Repeat 10 Times
I
am noticing a good many books and articles about masculinity in
crisis these days, and am faithfully avoiding reading them, since I’m
not in crisis myself and I’m on a campaign of clearing out clutter
in my life. I have just cleared off the top of my desk and am feeling
good about myself, even though some of the flotsam got stuffed into
the desk. I am now going to rid myself of books I’ll never read and
clothes I never wear.
Sometimes
I sit in the evening drinking ginger tea and watching baseball on TV
with the sound off, two teams I don’t care about and so it’s not
about winning, it’s about the art of baseball, the sharp reflexes
of infielders and the unique windup of each pitcher, the occasional
incredible full-tilt leaping outfield catch that kills the rally and
the fielder casually tosses the ball into the stands. It’s such a
cool move. Home runs mean nothing to me but that beautiful high-speed
intersection of outstretched glove and ball and there’s no victory
dance, just cool disdain. Tough luck. The fielder heads for the
dugout, the ball goes to a kid in the grandstand. The commentary of
the announcers is worthless; it’s all about the beauty of youth and
agility and discipline. In another ten years, that fielder will be a
civilian like you and me.
This
love of silence may be a benefit of three years of pandemic
isolation. Or maybe it’s something that comes with being 80. I
don’t have a lot of spare time to read righteous writing about
other people’s crises: I have no time to spare, in fact, and want
to enjoy what’s left to me. I discover that I truly enjoy silence.
I know people who, when they have guests for dinner, like to play
background music, and it drives me nuts. I hear souped-up cars and
Harleys sitting at a red light, revving their engines, and see porky
men with thin grey ponytails at the wheel, and wish they could be
locked up in a treatment centre. I live in an apartment building
that, because it’s expensive, has no residents under forty, so
there aren’t loud parties on Saturday night.
I
went to loud parties fifty years ago and hosted some of my own, and
now the thought of it strikes me as torture. My favourite social
interaction is daily marital congeniality and my second favorite is
when the phone rings and a friend is at the other end who is a good
conversational partner and we do a very delightful verbal dance for
half an hour and say goodbye. This, to me, is one of the supreme
pleasures of old age. In the course of living your confused and
sometimes crazy life, you’ve managed to collect an assortment of
people you love to talk with.
Unfortunately,
they die off. Margaret Keenan is gone, Bill Holm, Louis Jenkins, my
brother Philip, Roland Flint, Arnie Goldman, but others are waiting
to be discovered. I don’t text, I don’t TikTok, because there’s
no feeling there, no meaning, it’s like waving from a passing car.
My
brother was an engineer, a very different line of work from mine. I’m
in the amusement business and he was a problem solver. In my life,
I’ve tended to be a problem creator, but in my new octogenarian
life I’m trying to atone for that. It is never too late to make
amends.
I’ll
keep two suits to wear to church, and I’ll give away ten others and
also the four tuxedos I wore back when I did shows with orchestras:
no occasion for them now, so some homeless guy may enjoy looking
snazzy. My uniform is jeans and black T, I don’t go for shirts with
humorous quotations, so my closet is small. One pair of comfortable
shoes. A belt. I’ve lost weight lately and once, carrying groceries
to the car, my jeans slipped down to my knees before I could set the
groceries down. A woman whistled at me. I did not respond, didn’t
know how to.
Less
is more. I went through some tumultuous years and don’t miss them.
In this whole day, I only want to do a few things right. Dive to my
right, backhand the hard grounder, jump up, throw the runner out by
half a step at first. Know when to use a semicolon instead of a
comma. Put my hand on her shoulder and tell her I love her.
