Play Ball

I have two unfinished posts saved in my archives that I need to get to, but I have to say this first.

Every important lesson in life can be learned from baseball. Yesterday gave me another one.

I've been a passionate fan of the Texas Rangers since I discovered the magic of baseball in the summer of 1993---I was 11 years old. Now I'm 30, and the Rangers have mostly repaid my fanaticism with something between mediocrity and sheer garbage. There have been some good seasons, but it has mostly been a mess. And yet I kept coming back for more, year after year, always believing that this time will be different, that this time the hopes of spring training won't wilt in the Texas summer. I was wrong. Every year. And every year, I came back for more.

Last season, the Rangers played in their first World Series ever, taking the American league by storm on their quest to win it all. Then they ran into a white hot San Francisco Giants pitching staff that chewed them up and spit them out in a series that seemed over before it even got off the ground. Defeated again. Deflated again.

I came back for more.

And here we are, back in the World Series---and what a series it has been. If I were an emotionally un-invested baseball fan, I would call this one of the greatest World Series of all time. As a diehard Rangers fan though, this has been agony. Every game has been close, except for the game that could have been close if the umpire hadn't royally blown a pivotal call. After five games, Texas led the St. Louis Cardinals three games to two.

I will never forget game 6. A back and forth score saw the Rangers up 7-5 going into the ninth inning. I was a nervous wreck the whole way (check my facebook posts if you don't believe me.) Three outs away from their first championship. The closer records the first two outs while putting a pair of runners on. Two strikes on the last batter. The next pitch is driven deep into the outfield. Right fielder Nelson Cruz takes a bad route, and a catchable ball falls in for a game tying triple. Extra innings.

The Rangers get a runner on. Up steps Josh Hamilton, the defending league MVP. He's playing through a groin injury that badly needs surgery, and the pain has obviously limited his potency. But he would not be held down. A titanic hack drove the ball over the fence, putting the Rangers up by two once again. And then I sports-cried. I've known so many moments of either exuberance or devastation in my journey as a fan, but this was my first sports-cry since eleven-year-old me did so back in the summer that started it all. Hollywood couldn't have scripted a better ending.

I don't have it in me to poetically describe what happened next. Cardinals tied it in the bottom of the tenth. Rangers failed to score in the eleventh. Cardinals led off their half of the inning with a home run. Game over. Just like that.

Shock. Dagger. Sledge hammer. More daggers. There was some screaming in there somewhere. Then...numb. A pall of despair settled over me, and I just stared blankly at my computer screen, trying to process what just happened. I spent at least two hours on lonestarball.com because they were the only people in the world who had any idea what I was feeling. I spent the rest of the day (because the game ended around 5:30 p.m. New Zealand time) oscillating between deep sadness and detached cynicism.

As Rangers' Manager Ron Washington says, "That's the way baseball go."

The first pitch of Game 7 will be thrown in a little over an hour. This one is for all the marbles. The winner hoists a trophy. The loser...loses. I went to bed last night thinking I couldn't possibly handle another one like that. I wondered, along with a number of other lonestarball posters, whether caring was worth it. Why do we get so emotionally invested in something that has so little actual value? It's a freaking game. Why do we care so much? Caring hurts so bad...but what for? How is this worth it?

This morning I woke up, much to the chagrin of my feelings the previous night. I taught an RPM class with the theme, "Going to a better place." And it was good. I'm ready to play ball.

Maybe the Rangers will win. Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll get slaughtered. Maybe it will be another nail biter that comes down to yet another crushing defeat. I don't know. No one knows. Baseball is wildly unpredictable, and that's part of what makes it such a wild ride. If my team wins, I'm going to go nuts. If they don't, I'm going to rage at the skies and get really depressed and swear off baseball forever. I'll spend days and days wallowing in lonestarball misery with other crushed souls.

And then I'll come back. One more time.

I am frustrated with my life. I've taken a lot of risks, made a lot of decisions. Some of them were based on good thought process, but none of them have worked out anywhere near my satisfaction. Every failure makes it harder to get back up. But that's what you do.

You dare to live life. You dare to demand more of it, to experience it more fully, with nothing other than hope of something glorious balancing out the agony and disappointment you reap time and time again. And when life's gauntlet smashes you in the face, you scream every obscenity you know as you fall crashing to the ground. You stay there as long as you need to. If you are fortunate enough to have the kind of community that gets where you are and will walk through the valley of the shadow of death with you, then don't take it for granted. Embrace that community and find healing. But don't stay there. Get up, and get going again. There's another game tomorrow. Even if the season is over, spring training is just around the corner. It's time to hope again.

That's the way baseball go.

Play ball.