Dirty Diamond Dreaming (Part 1)

The following is a creative nonficton piece that I will post in 4 parts.  I wrote it for a Intro to Creative Writing class a year ago.  This is how I fell in love with baseball. Enjoy!


1. Baseball is like church.  Many attend; few understand.-- Leo Durocher

And... he hits a long one! Get up, baby, get up!

My sister Kaylee and I squirmed in the backseat.  The sun was beating down on our bare thighs, and the wind rushing in from the window was hot and heavy.  My dad was driving us to our grandmother's house.  It actually only takes 30 minutes to get there, but back then my sister and I thought it took an eternity.  It was especially long when my father listened to the baseball game, and he was always listening to the game.

"Dad," I whined, "Can't you turn it off?  It's so boring."

The game made no sense to me.  It was just some boring old guy speaking through the cracks and pops of AM radio.  I absolutely hated it, but that was before I could appreciate the beauty of the game-- the way its quiet and loud moments crawled under your skin and conspired to make you love it.  There was a loud moment occurring right now.

"Well, Mark McGwire just hit number 33," Dad said, ignoring my request once again. "Griffey and Sosa are still close, though."

"Who cares?" I grumbled, "It's so stupid."

This conversation is evidence that I was a disgraceful sourpuss at nine years old.  My parents and I butted heads often, but on no topic was there more head-butting than where to place the radio dial on hot summer afternoons.  It was war, and I lost every battle.  In middle school, when lunchtime conversations turned toward Things We Hate, my answer was invariably baseball and bananas.  This was in strong contrast to the things my friends disliked, which was some combination of boys (this was always said after the speaker's quick glance at her newest crush), the creepy gym teacher (this was unanimous), and shop class (where the only thing we could do with certainty was sand wood).  Of course, I was throughly convinced that anyone would have my ice hatred for the game had they experienced those long car rides.

By age twelve, I surrendered and stopped raging a war against the radio.  Dad didn't want to turn off the game? Fine. I had my CD player, and a book-world to get lost in.  Ironically, it was a book that led me to baseball.

More Later!