Sheltering in place during the pandemic offered old duffers like me, nearing 81, plenty of time, maybe too much, to reflect. I wonder if other mature readers have been reflecting:
Old friends around me are dropping like flies, and others are hobbled by physical and cognitive problems that lack good outcomes. I realize that I too am, in the middle of this baseball season, hurtling toward “home plate.”
Looking back, on both Little League and the game of life, I recall hitting a few singles to center. But never the home run I was capable of. The vagaries of the ball, bat and my weak follow-through never connected just right. Alas.
Now, in the clubhouse locker room, you might say, I just can’t bring myself to close for good the louvered door to my locker. I suit up and stretch out my aches as best I can.
I am no longer capable of the four-bagger; truth be told, maybe I never was, but, hey, two singles often can score a run.
I must finish the civic project in my town, and help a couple of former students win elections. And wrap up a primer/memoir on American politics. Not the stuff of biography maybe, yet chock full of valuable life’s lessons learned, mostly enjoyed, though far fewer than I imagine will find my scribblings of any interest.
Out on the field, I look around. The stands are mostly empty. The day is, however, sunny. Its warmth makes me realize I must thank somebody, something out there, who knows, just for giving me the chance to play the game at all.
Nowlan is a retired professor, politician, and newspaperman in central Illinois.