Expanding the Strike Zone

The Strike Zone Enlargeth

Normally..
No, that’s not right.
There is no normal: leastways not in this vicinity.
Usually, for the most part, during the so-called regular season, the strike zone is from your knees to your armpits: but in the summer it’s suddenly bigger, much bigger, preposterously large.
Purists will complain, but there is a good reason for this change.
Don’t ask me to explain.
The important thing to remember is that July is slip-sliding away, August is almost upon us, and before you know it you’ll be gassing up the snow-hurler.
So, as the coach says, ‘be up there swinging’.
Are we talking baseball, here?
Well, sort of.
The philosophy of summer can apply to baseball.
Our seven year old son is in a so-called Summer League, and the teams are made up of mixed ages and skill levels. Most of the kids have never pitched before, so genuine by the book, right down the middle, what do you want ‘eggs in your beer’ stee-rikes are few and far between.
Just pick out one you like and give it a ride!
But don’t be too picky.
In fact, you don’t have to like it: just hit the darn thing.
That goes for the adults too.
The coaches in this ‘league’ often have to wear several hats: there’s the official coaches hat, the hat of the father of a player, the umpires little black cap, physician, counselor, field crew and snack bar attendant.
They don’t tell you about these other responsibilities when you sign up to coach at this level. Many of the coaches have never done this before.
“What do I do?” they ask the grizzled little league veteran.
“Have fun”, they are told, with a wink: “It’s a big strike zone.
You’ve got to take your cuts.”
The games go long, very long, and are often called due to darkness.
Or is that the days go long, very long, and are often called due to baseball?
Whatever: when it’s over it’s too late to go home and make dinner – and too easy to give in: so you stop at Gellars for hamburgers and ice cream.
What flavor?
You read them all, out loud.
Choco-Mocha-Java-Banana-Haha-Butter-Crunch.
You never knew they had so many flavors.
Did you ever notice the flavors taste better when you read them out loud?
In the summer flavors you never knew existed, sound mighty tempting.
Then you sit there, in the parking lot, carefully tending to your cone of Mint Cookie Dough Daiquiri, and watch the traffic race by: everybody seems to be in such a hurry.
We spend most of the year chasing time, but when the summer comes around the relationship changes – or should.
Summer time is all about getting a hold of time.
No, that’s too easy: you don’t just get a hold of it; you sit on it, put in a headlock, hit it with a pillow, and make it cry uncle.
My personal approach is flattery.
“Say”, I say to the Summer seconds: “what a beautiful ticking sound you make”.
“Whoa”, I say to the minutes: “sixty is such a sexy number”.
“My my”, I say to the hours: I never noticed how beautiful you ‘hour’, ha ha”.
Most people don’t realize that time has a great sense of humor
We talk, and laugh, and before you know it, time forgets where it was going.
Those cool breezes in the trees – why, that’s time sighing.
Even time needs to take a break, once in a while.
As the coach says, “You have to relax to be ready.”
When you’re in the ‘ready position’ you’re relaxed.
Now where were we?
Oh, right: tending to the cone.
Here’s the windup, here’s the pitch. It’s a soft line drive, lazily arcing toward your mouth…
Eating an ice cream cone can take hours, if it’s done right.
Eventually you finish, get home and, for once, get to bed early and get a good night’s sleep.
For the first time in months you wake up before the alarm, early again, and notice right away – it looks like it’s going to be a nice day: not too humid, partly cloudy.
“Say, why don’t we drive to Sturbridge Village today?”
Or take a ride to nowhere.
Or go to the beach.
A cookout?
More ice cream?
You’re in the zone, the summer zone.
When you’re in the zone everything moves so slowly: the ball looks as big as a grapefruit; the sun is soft and cheery; you’re getting 100 miles to the gallon; the clouds are shaped like untidy French Poodles off their leash.
Somewhere, at the back of your head, you hear your own parents cheering you on, though that hasn’t happened for a very long time.
The car moves down the highway like a soft line drive, arcing toward the horizon, just out of the reach of the shortstop.
It falls into the thick outfield grass.
You round the bases with your tongue hanging out of the side of your mouth, the infield dirt crunching pleasantly under your tires.
You drive into second, go into your slide, and then just lie there, waiting for the call.
You wait so long you forget you’re waiting.
The light fades.
The stands empty out.
The sound of the game, the noise of the day, fades away.
Above you, lightning bugs audition for one another.
Soon you can’t tell the lightning bugs from the stars.
Soon the strike zone is as wide as the Milky Way.
It’s a short season.
Be up there swinging.