Zemblan Grammar

There are plenty of reasons why baseball is great: newly mown grass, the crack of the bat, cute boys in tight pants–you’ve heard them all before.  And I’m not talking about any of that “America’s Pastime” “bringing the country together” “let’s all sing a song” hooey.  Actually, outside New York, you can still attend a game where “Take Me out to the Ballgame” is sung rather than “God Bless America.” (A minor-league miracle, that is.)

The real magic is that you can attend a completely crap game in a crap stadium owned by a crap team you don’t give a crap about, and still have a great time.

Case in point: I recently attended a minor league game here. It was a  single-A team (a farm team for possibly the worst team in the majors), I was with a passel of girls who knew nothing about the game, and our section of the stadium was filled with a bunch of wild-eyed five-year-olds who couldn’t get enough of that running-jumping-screaming, sticking-their-feet-in-other-people’s-beer thing that children seem so much to enjoy.

In between shielding my overpriced libations from their tiny-but-powerful feet, I had to field (metaphor intended) a barrage of questions from my friends along the lines of:

“Does a home run get more points?”
“Oh no, why did he fall down like that?”
“Why did he just walk off the grass?”
“Who are those people standing out all far away?”
“Why does the thrower stand on that dirt hill there?”

Rather than debating the semantics of it all, like that it’s “runs” (not “points”) and “pitcher” (not “thrower”), I tried to answer questions in a somewhat efficient way that would make them stop asking.  “Every time someone crosses home plate, they get one run.  Er, one ‘point,’ OK,” I tried.  “If you keep watching, you’ll pick it up.”  “Just look at the catcher, isn’t he cute?  No, the one with all the protective headgear, who keeps catching the ball. No, there.”

Surprisingly, fun was had by all. As long as I can drink a $5 Miller Lite out of a plastic cup and boo the umpire, I’m happy. I think we can leave the infield fly rule and the physics of the fastball, curve ball, slider, sinker, change up, knuckle ball, and sidearm for next time.

Over the last 11 months or so, this blog has been a place wherein I aired a lot of grievances.  I have never really written about my personal life, unless you count my shame at being called out for having “ze smaller breasts.”

I’m not sure what etiquette demands in the current situation.  I do know that when I am faced with something, writing has usually been one way of (successfully or not) trying to address it.  Here I am at a loss.

I have lost someone important. An old friend, an old boyfriend, but also someone I could call at any time and be guaranteed hours of witty conversation and belly laughs.  Someone responsible (directly or not) for at least half of my music collection.  He played me my first Dinosaur Jr; I played him his first John Coltrane. He was my first kiss.

I could tally up all the things that meant something and try to write them with something approaching humor, poignancy, dignity.  But I don’t know if the words I’m afforded would be worth the effort.  Language always forces us to confront slippage and misunderstanding. My words wouldn’t suffice.  Like a shoddy sweater leaking wind and rain, they would let in the extraneous and allow the meaningful to seep slowly out.

I called a close mutual friend, and my voice cracked as I managed to tell him I didn’t have anything specific to say.  I just wanted to say something, anything.  Not even the right thing, but something.

I still have no agenda here, except to think about approaching finally what would be the right thing to say. [Clearly the papers can't be trusted, since they think "Coaltrain" is a name, those fucking asshats]

On our bad days, we suspected him of taking without giving.  On a clearer day, it becomes easy to see that he gave us so much we don’t even know where to begin. No word suits. It was so much easier when we could glean an hour’s uncontrollable laughter from a single gesture.