Memorial Day

We reached Citi Field in time for the Mets batting practice, my first time witnessing this spectacle. The players were on right field, rolling on the grass, their arms and legs akimbo. Two stylish trainers would occasionally call out a drill and the guys would go into a different stretch, entirely out of synch. A flock of young women stood along the railing swooning as David Wright and Daniel Murphy twisted their hips. "I'm standing like twenty feet away," one woman said, talking into her cellphone. "Oh my god, he's looking at me!" another cried. Murphy and Wright looked back and laughed. Most of these players are younger than me, some quite a bit, a detail that really isn't relevant on the field. But in this particular crowd, the thought that any one of these players, with few exceptions, could be my younger brother was sobering. David and I moved quickly to get a better view of the pitchers, an area fraught with far less tension but where chances of coming way with a relic increase substantially. Our friend Tien had taken advantage of no line at the Shake Shack, so we ate burgers and watched Stokes, Takahashi, Green and Parnell warm up. I was prepared to let go of our original idea: to ask Brian Stokes to sign my jersey, the one David, my husband, had custom ordered for my birthday last year, before Stokes was on the official roster.  I asked the person next to me if batting practice etiquette discouraged asking for a signature. "They sometimes toss up balls but they don't usually sign stuff," he said. "See, they don't sign stuff," I told David, admittedly with some relief.  David kept reading his Mets program. "Just wait," he said.

Eventually, the guys started to wind down. Stokes sat down for a moment and looked around. "Do something!" I begged David, completely losing my nerve. He called out to Stokes, who turned in our direction and saw my jersey--Stokes 43--hanging over the railing.  He gave me a thumbs up. I gave him a thumbs up too. That seemed like a good story. 

A few moments later, Stokes got up and started signing some balls for fans further down the row. Most of the players walk past the balls scattered over the field, ignoring the entreaties of the fans. It's like feeding pigeons, David said. But Stokes was gracious and generous. I gathered my wits and waved my jersey in his direction. I insist that I called out to him but David is certain that I was mostly mute throughout this entire transaction. He came over and reached up for the jersey and our pen. "Where should I sign it?" he asked. "Anywhere!" I croaked. He signed his name in purple. "Over the heart!" I later exclaimed. "Or the boob," Tien noted. He tossed up the shirt and then reached down, grabbed a ball, and sent that up as well. I heard murmurs all around me. The purple Sharpie followed. A better story. 

The ball Stokes gave me is slightly worn, with grass stains along its red seams. It still has the scent of a new ball. I was prepared to turn my jersey into a relic, but the ball caught me by surprise.  I tossed it around yesterday as I contemplated new turns in my work. It has life in it yet.

Comments

[Anil Dash]

I am Stoked about this.

[tien]

is your heart still aflutter?