A Wrigley Moment

Lost in the webbing's of my glove I thought that the ball had become. Not possible, but lost in the twines and nettles of the wall was infinitely possible.

When I looked for the ball, it was not in my glove, I searched at my feet, to find only my red laces mocking me, it's not between my feet, nor in my glove, where has it gone. Panic settles in and the noise from the crowd is urging me to produce the ball magically from some secret source.

Then as I am leaning against the vines, and the brush, it slips onto my arm, like an egg from a nest , asking me to care for it. Like a mother to a child, I cradle the ball gently, my eyes, still not believing my fortune.  I grasp the orb, which has magical powers, and throw it straight to the shortstop , who has been pleading with his eyes to receive the ball in time to double up a returning runner.

Where did it come from, the ball. from the sky ?, from my equipment, or from the vines, from the vegetation that lines the wall ? It must be from the wall, or at least I have convinced myself that makes the most sense.

The shortstop gets the ball too late to re tag the runner, and angrily looks out toward centre field, as it to say, if you'd thrown it sooner, maybe we had 2 outs.  He does not know, nor has he comprehended yet, the ball was lost to me, and in the moments that passed, I had thought it carried the fence, the green expanse, and then by the miracle re appeared on my arm, trickling through vine and hedge, as it playing some hide and seek game.

The next hitter pops up to short, and we all start running in to the dug out, the shortstop is slowly waiting for me to reach him. I will have a story to tell him. I did not have any idea where the ball came from. He will laugh and we'll recount the whole thing, re enacting our roles over dinner later, or on the plane.

Such is a Wrigley moment, in one of the most unique baseball meccas that exists.

Old ballparks such as the Chicago institution, or Fenway, hold onto mystery for ball fans, while the newer parks rely on exploding messages, jumbo trons, trim lines, perfect geometric angles that present fielders with mathematical decisions, the correct line to the ball.  Easy choices, no indecision, true bounces, and clean lines.

No obstructions, no left turns in the wall, no hills to climb, and certainly no plant life for the ball to find refuge in.  Fenway and Wrigley continue to engage me more as a fan, for their possibilities are endless, and I have touched the sky.