A Childhood Memory of Spring

A Childhood Memory of Spring

    Spring smelled a certain way. Can you imagine the aroma of a fresh cut lawn mixed with the savor of brand new baseballs? Before long the baseballs got grass stains smudged across them, and the bleached white pants of the ball players uniform became as foul as his sweat stained cap. Divinity passed through a cluster of clouds. The sun was young shifting its beauty through the cumulus design, and I much older, now, recollect on that sleeping eternity.

   I stood beneath the oak tree which was like father God watching over me, sheltering me, and caring for my needs. My mound was a line of dirt scrapped from the dark green lawn. Pa stood 46 feet back. He had stepped it off stride by stride.

   “That looks about right dad,” I said.

   “Yep,” he returned. I posed with my profile towards him. My face expressed the composure needed for a savage summer of competition. I inhaled and exhaled with a single action. “Let her rip,” he yelled crouching with the catcher mit ready to receive.

   I delivered the ball with a tight arm. It was high and inside the imaginary plate. “Ball!” rang my Pa’s voice adding glory to the evening.

   I whirled my arm around a bit and bent over to touch my toes. Then again I delivered the pitch. It zoomed towards the target in a zen instance. I heard the sound of the ball hitting the sweet spot of the mit. My dad grinned, swung the ball back to me, and we went on with practice as I made pitch after pitch. It was more than a warm up. I reckon I struck out 10 batters and played a half game before my arm was spent. Before Pa remitted the catcher’s position and sat on his knees. The glorified orange dangled on the horizon. The birds flocked to the limbs of the stoic oak. 

  “Just a few more son!” My dad proclaimed to muster up hidden strength.

   I nodded, removed my cap, and wiped my brow. Suddenly, light bent off the glass of the front door attracting my gaze and my mother appeared delicate as she was.

   “Dinner’s ready,” she gratefully called. We paused and I captured a snap shot. Then as she was taken back into the house, I recognized a satisfaction resting with her. It was purely meek and contained something I didn’t understand until now. How the cycle of old and young endlessly repeats and how there is purpose to both.

    “Good job son,” My dad said patting me on my back. “This is going to be your year.”

written by: Brett Wiley

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