by Nels Griffin

Created on: July 26, 2009

Life just sort of threw me a curve ball was my sheepish reply. Larry confirmed, Yes, life seems to do that, throw you curve balls, doesn't it. I stood there for a moment in silence, staring out the checkerboard windows in my home. Through the salt stained glass I could see the white wisps of sea water rolling over the reef in the distance. Behind me Larry, a grayed striking Italian man, continued through the upper register, listening for the subtle waves of intonation as he set my piano to 440. Something though was wrong. There was insincerity in the air, although innocent. The aphorism that had resonated here in my living room by one of the wisest edifices in my life, seemed feeble. It wasn't a curveball, it wasn't a fast ball, slider, sinker or the like, life does not throw any variety of pitches to trip us up, for it is those very pitches we long for. As I stood there, for just a moment, the foggy widows cleared and the shower of rays that danced on the great passive sea before me where just a little brighter.

I have played my share of baseball over the course of 34 years; a few local leagues, pickup ball, and the obligatory picnic throw-around, enough to understand the game. Although the sport has never nested in my heart, I do find that the camaraderie and teamwork fill hungry cries for friendship every soul longs to feed. So I bury myself in its strengths and eschew its drudgeries. There is one fact though, in this game of wood and wit, that can not escape attention. As I stand in the batters box, watch the pitcher, analyze his body language, critique his windup and release, I anticipate what junk he's going to throw my way. From the sharpest mid eighties fastball that whistles by, to a lazy lollypop slider, I am looking for a pitch that suits my style. For me the curve ball is an ally. As a lefty, the deliberate inward decent of a right handed curve is like an old friend greeting me with a warm hug. I can almost close my eyes, as they often find a sweet spot in my swing. Sometimes the pitcher mucks an outside pitch to tempt me like a tasty delight just out of reach. Other times i find myself nearly chopping at the plate, as he drops a change-up. All these though, strike, ball, even a wild pitch, are all calculated. I am looking for them. I know what to do, how to swing, where to watch. One can suppose based on a relatively consistent standards how the game will play out. When the pitcher catches me looking, although outwardly dejected, on the inside

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