He Finally Went Out to the Ball Game

One of my favorite sounds in the world is the reminiscent fuzz of major league baseball on AM radio.  When I was a little girl, I loved spending weekends with my grandparents at their house just outside of Detroit.  My grandpa loves sports, and back then he was especially fond of two things: the Detroit Tigers on T.V. and the Detroit Tigers on the radio.  Grandpa's not much of a talker, so whenever he would pick me up or drive me home after a stay at their house, we'd travel quietly for the 30 minute car ride, listening to nothing but major league baseball.

When Grandpa didn't talk much, it was as if those baseball announcers became our voice.  He was the quiet, "only speak if you have something to say" type, and I was the littlest granddaughter who felt shy because, well, Grandpa never really had much to say.  Over time, though, we bonded through baseball radio.  When we didn't know how to talk to each other, they talked for us, leaving us with the sound of home runs, foul balls, strikes and "You're out!s" - all of these for me, the sound of contentment - the hum of everything being right in the world, just as it should be.

But today all is not right in the world, nowhere near all it should be.  My grandparents are in their 80s now, and Grandma has slipped into Alzheimer's disease.  After years of trying to keep them in their own home, Grandpa decided it would be best for Grandma to get proper care in an assisted living home - so he moved there, too.  Ironically, Grandma seems to be ok these days - though she doesn't remember, she still laughs and sings and plays with the innocence of a child.  For Grandpa, it's different.  He does remember, and for him, remembering means loss.

For the last two years, I have tried to no avail to get my grandpa to let himself live again, but he doesn't seem to want to.  We sit together and watch baseball, golf, basketball, football (SO ok with me), but I know there is more for him than this.  I know that, although life will never be what it once was, there is still more for him - more to be enjoyed, adventured, and loved.  People invite him to do things with them constantly, only to receive a rough, short, "No" in reply.  Last summer, I asked my grandpa to go to a baseball game with me.  I thought, surely, he'd love to go to a baseball game.  But no.  I was rejected by my own grandfather.  There is always some excuse, some reason that he can't or won't let himself enjoy life anymore.  

In many subtle ways, as sad as it sounds, I can relate to my grandpa's fears.  This past week especially I found myself caught up once again in a whirlwind of fear at letting go, moving forward, stepping out, and trying again.  Sometimes I don't want to try again.  I don't want to start all over again.  I don't want to reach out and start from scratch.  Sometimes, I just want to feel safe, comfortable, held, constant.  

Sometimes, I don't really want to go out to the ballgame either.  

A few days ago, my mom told me something that single-handedly restored my courage to chin-up, forge ahead, embrace the risk and believe enough to dream.  She accomplished this in one sentence:

"Grandpa went to the baseball game last week."

"WHAT?"

"Grandpa went to the baseball game last week."

And, tears.

In one sentence, I had two images flash into my mind:  the first, my grandpa sitting in the stands at Victory Field, letting himself love an old love again.  The second, a little boy getting on a school bus.  I have no idea how that second image snuck its way in, but it was as if in Grandpa finally being willing to go to the ballgame with some new friends, he allowed himself to be a child again.  Like a kindergartener boarding the bus for his first day of school, in childlike innocence and faith, he let himself try again - he let himself live again - he let himself start again, at 84.

"Oh," Mom added.  "And he's going to Conner Prairie next week."

"That is so stinking precious." (me)

I know that life is full of pain and fear for Grandpa these days.  I know that all he loves the most seems to be slipping away, and yet this week, one of the most stubborn men I've ever known finally caved and let himself try again.  I couldn't be more proud of him, and I find myself today wanting to be more like him.  

So I'm throwing my backpack on, I'm boarding the bus, and I'm taking my seat at that ballgame.  Heart trembling, hands shaking, mind wondering what is to come, I'm embracing the risk, hugging the uncertainty and telling it a big, fat "Thank you," for reminding me there is still more than this.  Whether this all ends up in a strike-out or home-run, we will have lived, and lived well.  

"Buy me some peanuts and Cracker-Jack, I don't care if I never come back..." :)