A Sacred Moment

I slowed my pace as I reached the worn patch of grass that had been my home for the last few innings.
I thought about the fact that this may be my last game this year.
I smelled the grass, the dew.
I peered through the glow of the outfield lights to see the stars watching overhead.

There are few things better than this moment.

I sunk my hand into the wet leather of my glove, smelled the leather, felt it form to my hand as I pulled the velcro strap tight.
I looked over at my teammates. Are they experiencing this moment too?
The light fog, illuminated by the lights reminds me of the shekinah glory. If this isn't the presence of God, I'm not sure what is.

We lost the game, but my soul was pulsating with absolute joy for the rest of the night.

Perhaps its the legacy of an athletic tradition. . . gladiators and swordsmen subjecting themselves to physical hardship for the sake of a game, edifying no more than a metaphor with no less than their own sweat and blood.

Perhaps its the legacy of my own fathers. . . baseball, an American tradition - three generations gathered around a citronella candle, the AM radio hanging upside down at just the right angle, Jack Buck, in his excited mutter, describing the feats and failures of our heroes.

For whatever reason, in that moment, on that field, on that night, without glory, without pomp, without pretense --- baseball was sacred. And it allowed me to play too.