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» MEDIA (4) Sting - Fields of Gold

Water begins to pool, to coalesce all around, and its coolness permeates the air. From the pristine barrenness of the cold, a warmth brushes the cheek and seeming flees in jest. A rumble; an old god stirring in dream-filled slumber, and then a crack of thunder, and the heavens impart their gift of quenching water. For moments, people stop, forgetting their errands and feel the changing of the season.

Spring. The Season of Life. Of fresh starts and resolutions and hope.

And in a roughly cut field in a roughly cut country town, the boys emerge, presages, spirits of the season. They grab the first thing resembling a ball and the first stick resembling straight, and they dig in. On the dewed grass greened by the first spring shower, brightness of hope and life radiates hotly from their eyes, and their smiles speak of joy, simple and true as God's children at play should know it. The first pitch is thrown with heartfelt intent, the first swing exuberant, and the crack of contact clear and satisfying. They; we, crane our necks, following the flight of the ball. The effect is overwhelmingly uplifting as ball and hearts sail heavenward. Maybe not for the pitcher that day, but even he would remember in years to come the pulse in his ears and the hotness of his breath.

I love baseball. I know most of you have no inkling of what I feel towards this game, but it is a game for timeless souls. It’s for people who measure the passing of moments not with seconds or minutes, but with laughs, with tears, with loves and sorrows. You see, with no clock to force the pace, there is left only the graces of humanity to fill the drama. And in those eternal moments when batter stares down pitcher, there lies elation, rapture, pure and simple joy. Or there is heartbreak; there is helplessness; there is defeat. But there is always hope. Just ask Cubs fans.

There’s one thing in particular I will always remember with as much childhood fondness as catching grasshoppers in the country field with my brother. Vin Scully, who announced Dodger games as father time himself, infinite in patience and bounty of kindness. Vin Scully, who like a jolly old grandfather so effortlessly carried the hopes of fans on his every word. For me no image of summer can ever be complete without the sound of his voice, speaking like a magic lullaby the fate of my beloved Dodgers. I can close my eyes and feel the liquid heat of august, and there’s his inviting baritone, wafting lazily through the air, full of grace. His slow, drawl-like intonations belie his New York roots, yet serve masterfully to impart his descriptions with gravitas and authenticity. I have no inkling of what heaven is like, but I'll know I'm not there if after I die I don't hear his voice kindly telling me how my Dodgers are doing.

I can never get over the feeling of purpose that I get whenever I watch a game from the stands, bare headed and bright eyed. The feeling that, if there is a God, this is the Great Purpose meant for us. To be, above all, joyful and at peace, delighting in this game with my brother rather than fighting him in arms. That in all the history of our struggles, this secret game is the glimpse of purpose and of divine hope we all desire.

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