Opening Day. Amen.

I'm one of those persons who feels a little religious on the opening day of baseball. It wasn't my best sport as a kid. I cared much more passionately about basketball. But baseball holds a reverence in my heart unrivaled by any other sport. It feels ancient and substantial, and I think this is in part because it is so ritually enacted. It has to be ancient to have developed such ritual drama. The way a batter prepares for each pitch. The way a pitcher looks in for a sign, while a base coach crosses himself. The dance between base runner and pitcher. The way the ump calls out strikes. The agreed upon ways a manager and ump argue calls. There are a thousand gestures in baseball and they all bear significance. For the initiated, they bespeak reverence. This is not to mention the high church aspects: first pitch, national anthem, Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Sweet Caroline.

Some of my thickest memories of life are connected to baseball. I love David James Duncan's short story, "The Mickey Mantle Koan." It beautifully describes Duncan's experience of playing long toss with his brother who died young from cancer. It is a moving, moving story, and the connection made between ball, gloves, and brothers is a big part of all of that.

In a similar way, baseball is attached to big memories I have of life with my dad. When I was 11, dad was working on a doctorate at a seminary in the San Francisco area. His program required residencies only every other summer. So, our family of four lived in a 15 foot trailer in a nearby trailer park during these summers, our permanent home being in Portland, OR. We went to Giants and A's games as we could. The Giants had Willie Mays, McCovey, Bobby Bonds, Juan Marichal. The A's featured Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando, Joe Rudi, Bert Campenaris, and a rookie flamethrower who won 27 games, Vida Blue.

But the best part of that summer was the afternoons when my dad would come home from classes or the library. He would grab the bat and ball and I would grab by Dick McAullife autographed fielder's glove (which means more now that I live in Detroit), and he would hit me fly balls. He'd hit some in front of me. He'd hit some over my head. I would catch everything he hit. The ball, bat, and glove tied us together. My dad and I connect on several levels in life, but none more viscerally real than the time he spent hitting me fly balls. I know guys whose relationship with their fathers is less ideal. But playing catch or chasing fungos could cover a multitude of sins. Or make priceless what was already rich.

I played my last year of Little League in the Skyline league in Wilshire Park in Portland, Oregon. I walked the diamond a few years ago when I was visiting Portland. Such thick, thick memories. I played for Frederick's Grain. I played mostly center field and shortstop when the coach's son wasn't there. I could go get the ball, but I couldn't hit much.

So, one of the greatest memories of my life is the day I hit one over the fence against a red headed lefty named David Nelson. I can still feel the connection in my hands when the ball connected with my 32 oz wooden Louisville Slugger. There is no feeling like that. No vibration. Sweet spot. Like the bat gave into the ball before it trampolined it into space. You don't even have to look. You know you tagged it. The ball sailed over the fence the moment my foot hit the first base bag. My legs turned to rubber. I had hit the ball over the fence! No one else was needed on that play. Just the pitcher and me. And now the singular moment of being the only one playing as I touched each base. I didn't need the fireworks or the playing of the music from The Natural to feel that way as I rounded for home. Pure euphoria. And my teammates, stunned by this unlikely event, were waiting to mob me at home plate. I can still feel the sun on my neck as I ran down the third base line, and the stings on my back as my teammates pounded me with congratulations. For the next few games I hit fifth in our order until reality dropped me back into the eight hole.

If I could choose a moment of my life to relive, that one would be high on the list of candidates.

So, opening day is a religious day, steeped in the ritual thickness of the game itself, and heightened by the mythological experience of dad and son, of wood and leather, of teammates and achievement. Play ball!

Dylan on a Sunday

This was a good weekend. I traveled to Dallas to work with congregations working hard to discover for themselves what it might mean to be missional. We are at the end of a three year process and it has been hard, but gratifying work. On Friday night, our consulting team went to a Texas Rangers doubleheader. Going to a game is not about the Texas Rangers, but rather about the green grass and white chalk and the crack of a bat. Baseball invites you in gently. It doesn’t demand your attention, “look at me, look at me, look at me.” It says, “watch if you want, there will be another pitch in a little while.” And so, you can look around and share the moment with others and talk about what song would play if you came to bat and shell peanuts and root for blue or red in the dot race.

We were sitting in a section of season ticket holders who all knew each other. So, the conversation was lively and courtesies were high. They welcomed us into their koinonia, though less so those of us wearing red sox and braves paraphernalia. Two guys sitting behind us decided that I might be a likely source of ancient baseball lore since I looked older. And sure, enough, I could answer their questions about Nolan Ryan and I knew the trivia question featuring a 1970’s catcher for the Oakland A’s. Some of my colleagues took great delight that I was valued for my advancing years. But my young inquisitors also liked the Bob Dylan t-shirt I was wearing. Bob has a way of bringing generations together.

The Rangers swept the A’s, and the baseball was beautiful. The first game featured the beauty of 20 year old Elvis Andrus, the Rangers’ new shortstop. The nightcap featured the virtuosity of 42 year old Omar Vizquel, one of the best to ever go deep in the hole or to turn the double play. Twenty years apart and in the same beautiful game. It expressed the entire weekend, the old and the new, the frontier and the settled country. The baseball doubleheader ended in a fireworks show. I have to admit that I’m not usually much of a fireworks guy, but this one I will remember. The percussive thumps in my chest, the brilliant light, the smokey trails in the night sky, the appreciative fans. Perfect.

I was reflecting on all of that while sitting in the Dallas airport, sipping Starbucks and splurging on their keylime crumb cake (I love that stuff). The end of a PMC. The celebration with colleagues. The beauty of a ballgame. And suddenly there was a Dylan song playing through the overhead speakers, full of smokely nostalgia and longing. Sometimes a song just captures the feeling of the moment. The song was This Dream of You, from the new cd, Together Through Life. It’s the last song a band plays at a dance, the one that gathers up all the good feeling and holds it between you and your partner in a slow two-step. And when it is over everyone is satisfied. This song matched my mood at the end of a great weekend.

I listened for the lyrics on the plane back to MSP. Couldn't get em all, but here is today's Dylan song.

How long can I stay in this nowhere café before night turns into day
I wonder why I’m so frightened and down
All I have and all I know is this dream of you which keeps me moving on

There’s a blowing wind, all those things become new again
But the moment might have come and gone
All I have and all I know is this dream of you which keeps me moving on

I look away but I keep seeing it
I don’t wanna believe but I keep believing it
Shadows dance upon the wall, shadows that seem to know it all
Am I too blind to see, is my heart playing tricks on me
I’m lost in the crowd, all my tears are gone
All I have and all I know is this dream of you which keeps me moving on

Everything I touch seems to disappear, everywhere I turn you are always here
I run this race until my...
I’ll defend this place with my dying breath
Though my chin is...
I saw a star from heaven fall I turned and looked again, but it was gone
All I have and all I know is this dream of you which keeps me moving on