Sangfroid - Oct 21 2022

 

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.