My playing days are well past me now. I've written about them in a short story and a book, neither of which will see the light of day. They help me remember things so that when I'm enfeebled, I'll at least have a record to which I can refer.
I miss sports. I loved competing. I loved trying to do my best and enjoyed it when I accomplished something. I was never about myself; I couldn't have played anything but a team sport. Seeking personal achievements never occurred to me.
But what I miss most about playing baseball and basketball are the sensations. For someone who's never played either of these sports, this will sound weird. Here, though, are the things I miss:
The feel of a new baseball that I'm about to pitch.
The tightening of my stomach as we get ready for the center jump to start the game.
The feel of my cleats as I scraped the ground in front of the rubber, beside first base or in the batter's box.
The feel of wood in my hands in any weather: It's coldness in early Spring games, it's slipperiness in humid weather games and the sting it gave me in those colder games.
How my wrist felt when I knew I'd stroked a good shot.
The weight of an opponent's body as he banged into me contesting a rebound.
The hardness of home plate as I crossed it with a run.
The odd mix of hardness and softness of first, second or third base.
The smell of the freshly mown infield grass.
The unforgiving varnished court that gave me floor burns as I dove for a loose ball.
The oddity of the tartan surface that was a hard rubber.
The scratchiness of the old woolen uniforms we played T-ball in.
The almost unique sleeved jerseys our grade school team in which our team played basketball.
The sound of cheerleaders being a din in the background of a game.
The spontaneous cheers of the crowd reacting to a play.
The chatter of the opponents when I was up to bat.
The majestic sound of ash meeting ball.
The thud of the ball landing in horsehide.
The smell of a freshly oiled mitt.
The perfection of the raised surface of a new basketball.
The difference in sounds of a ball hitting a backboard.
The cacophony in the gym during the final moments of a hotly contested game.
The sting moments after being hit by a pitch.
The refreshing taste of very cold water during hot summer games.
The glare of the lights playing night games.
The haze in which the ball disappeared in the lights during night games.
My breathing as I ran to my position to cut off the outfielder's throw to the plate.
The slight tick of the ball barely grazing my mitt as I let it go through to the catcher to decoy the runner rounding first.
The union of ball in mitt and mitt hitting runner diving back to first after the pitcher threw to first.
The ping of an aluminum bat hitting a baseball.
The muffled sounds of the coach shifting fielders from the bench.
The subtle directions from our basketball coach adjusting our defense.
The stern instructions in the huddle for our next in-bounding play.
The groan of an opponent when our aggressiveness went up a few notches.
And finally, the elation of being drenched in the showers in full uniform after winning the championship.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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