Freeing My Mind

As a kid, I played baseball. I didn’t really have a passion for the game, in fact most Thursday afternoon practices were preceded by me attempting to con my dad out of making me go. I was always the kid who was okay at sports. I wasn’t terrible, but no one was going to suggest that I “go easy on that knee” because I might “hit the big leagues one day”. The problem is that I hung around other kids who more than likely now have barbed wire tattooed across their bicep and spend early afternoons regaling their little league war stories amongst the fine folks at Joe’s Bar and Grill. When Michael Jordan is on your team, the fact that your Scottie Pippen doesn’t matter. Although, my taste for baseball more resembled my taste for beef tips at Western Sizzlin’ rather than an 8 ounce sirloin from Outback Steakhouse, I played it anyway. Why you might ask? I had to. For one, it was the only way to get a free “Suicide”. What’s a suicide? Only the stuff a 9 year old’s dreams are made of: A 16 ounce Coca-Cola branded paper cup, half filled with Coca-Cola Classic and the other half filled with liberal squirts from every snow-cone flavor available. My adolescent dilemma came when I realized that if I opted out of the suicide, that I could get a pack of Topps branded baseball cards. It might not make sense that I enjoyed collecting baseball cards, seeing as how my love for the game was less than stellar. That is until you take into account the triple threat of packed in petrified gum, the hopes of actually obtaining a card that my brother didn’t already have and the ability to participate in an incredibly nerdy activity that was still considered socially acceptable. Kind of like fantasy football. The end of each baseball game was marked by the ceremonial shaking of hands between the two teams. This was a strange event for all involved. We were supposed to line up as a team and then walk down the field parallel to the other team, slap hands and declare to each player, “good game”. Several factors played into the outlandish nature of the tradition. For one, someone lost and inevitably someone got a hit in the groin by an overzealous pitcher. This created a need for celebration on one side and a lust for revenge on the other side. For the parents and coaches to require us to then make contact with the opposing team was nothing more than sadism. On another note. Baseball is a game that besides the normal rules, involves various unspoken rules. Among these rules are the following: 1. Spitting snot out of your mouth 2. Scratching places that normally aren’t scratched in public 3. Rubbing your hands in the dirt that was previously spat in for the sake of better gripping the ball. Now, these same hands are the hands that are about to be touching one another. If that isn’t bad enough, inevitably there was 6ft tall giant on one of the teams who had been held back in school for three years in a row and was therefore allowed to participate in the league with his fellow students. This kid never actually touched hands, but instead proceeded to punch the shoulder of each player that would dare tell him that it was a good game. After all, he decided if the game was good or not.

Have you ever played the game? Which game, you say? Oh, you know the game. Even if you think you don’t know it, you do. Many of you probably even play the game. Points aren’t tallied on a scoreboard, but they are tallied all the same. There’s no actual game board or playing field, it’s a little less concrete than that. Our lives are the board and the world is the field. There are no coaches or referees, only players. There’s no end to the game and seemingly no winner, only those who are ahead. We’re not all playing the same game session, but it’s the same game all the same. The object of the game is simple:

1. Get ahead by any means necessary.

2. The end justifies the means.

There are no rules, in fact cheating is encouraged. It’s not really cheating, if it’s for the good of the game. Some play the game in their country club, some in the business world, some at school, some amongst their families, some amongst their friends. Most I know, play the game in Church. We don’t have to play the game… or do we?

This really isn’t inspiring, but rather simply proves my point.

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