Sunrise On Deck Tearsheets
The softball fields in Nelson Park sit like slices of a giant turf pie, and the warning tracks of the main fields form a trampled crust. At this early hour, the sky is already pink and misty gray, the night dissipating in anticipation of the morning’s glory. The icy wind rushes through the trees and brushes the grass with undulating, exquisite strokes, and I realize my thin hoodie is inadequate. I sip some hot tea from the cup in my hand.I stand at the origin of the fields under the pavilion, with the home plate of each diamond at each of my own cardinal directions. I pick field number 4, and move to the bleachers. I sit to watch the sun rise. I’m a spectator.
AhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhBliiiiiiiingAhhhhhhhhhhHHHmmmmmmmmm.It’s the wind rushing over the tin roof above me. And the road noise from Highway 36. And the hum of the Coke machines. The three sounds merge and fill my senses, and I stand up unexpectedly. I listen. The more I focus on the sound, the more it sounds like a crowd, the eerie aural haunting of last night’s fanatics. With each gust the crowd becomes louder and louder. I move to the dugout.
The sky is now more orange than pink, and I know the sun’s orb will sliver up soon.
The chainlink dugout fencing sways and blings in the wind, too. The long silver bench stretches before me like a runway. At the other end of the dugout is the field entrance. Moving in the wind at my feet are pieces of trash discarded during the previous night: cloven Ketchup packets, grimy Gatorade bottles, smoked cigarette butts, and broken beer bottles—those would’ve been some churlish innings. Behind me, five Styrofoam cups are shoved butt-end into the little diamond formations in the chainlink. I move toward the field opening.
There is a newly overturned cup caught in a mini-tornado of air, spinning on the cement. The water has been sucked into the concrete, and the dampness looks like an inkblot. The cup spins unceasingly as I try to see something in this evaporating Rorschach. Nothing. I still feel like I’m merely an observer. The sun is almost up now.
I take a breath, a sip of tea, and walk onto the field. The brownish, finely grained dust shifts beneath my feet. It’s profuse with small round craters, like the surface of the moon; the leftovers are from cleats. I’m surprised the wind hasn’t blown them away, but here they sit, stolid, like Neil Armstrong’s bootprint. I stand on the pitcher’s rubber and face right field. The speckled outfield grass is brown and green, a victim of improper caretaking. Beyond that the giant signs on the outfield fence tell me I need a new place to bank, or to shop, or to buy this or that, or who sponsors the teams. I feel like I’m waiting around for something that isn’t going to happen. But I’m impatient. I always have been.
Another sip of tea. I face home plate. The sky is brighter still. I imagine myself a pitcher in last night’s game. It’s the bottom of the last inning, and my next pitch decides the game. In a rather pessimistic fantasy, I throw a fastball, and the batter hits the ball high over my head; I spin to follow it. I watch the ball fly through the air and land outside the right field fence.
The invisible crowd erupts. At that moment a pink sliver slides up over the horizon directly in front of me. A rush fills the air and my lungs insist on a quick breath. The instant the sunlight hits my retinas, an enormous flock of blackbirds takes flight. They spiral out of a pair of live oaks behind right field and reach an apogee two hundred feet in the air. They turn as one, like a sentient mist, and dive straight at the pavilions and spectator bleachers. It’s happening.
I turn as the flock passes me and lands in the bleachers. The squawking is ear-splitting. I notice on the ground, opposite the sun, my shadow stretching out before me for a good two hundred feet and suddenly, I’m there. I’m not a spectator anymore. I’m a part of this scene, however small, of life.
I walk to the bleachers, which are golden now in the glow of light, and traipse among the birds. I notice they are picking through the bleachers for peanuts and sunflower seeds. God’s cleanup crew.
I stumble up the bleachers directly behind homeplate to find the announcer’s booth unlocked, so I step in to warm up. There is a table and a small chair. On the table is a scoresheet. On the wall above the table graffiti implores: “Keep scorebooth clean.” I laugh out loud at this. I look out over the field. I think about how everything has usefulness. Even the trash from last night was used for a purpose. Those peanuts and sunflowers were discarded for a purpose. These fields are here for purpose. A community will gather later today. Somehow, I’m part of the community. I’m here for a purpose. I’ll have to be patient and see what it is.
A paper plate spins out of the dugout and rounds third. I mark a triple.
This piece appeared in a collection entitled “One Day in the Life of Abilene.”
An ethereal burst
