The release valve

Finding something to ease your mind in hard times

When you play for a community college, watering the field is part of the gig

---

Brady, my oldest niece’s oldest son, is a pitcher at Fayetteville Tech Community College. A bunch of us went over there last weekend to see him play. They played two games and it took seven hours and we froze our asses off in the stands. It was wonderful.

You might have seen that major league owners are locking out the players — as I write this, the commissioner has announced that the first two series of the season have been canceled. But college baseball has been going on for weeks. At first pitch Saturday, I counted the attendance at 47 people and a dog.

Baseball always gives you something new. I saw two things Saturday that I’d never seen live.

One: A runner was stealing second, and the catcher’s throw nailed the pitcher right in the bicep. (My brother, a former college pitcher, says it’s the pitcher’s job to move.)

Two: A pitcher on the opposing team could throw with either hand. I think he had a special glove of some kind, and he’d just decide whether he wanted to pitch lefty or righty and switch his glove to the other hand. (Some of you might be remembering the famous story about N.C. State basketball player Charles Shackleford … when a reporter asked him if he could score with either hand, he said “Left hand, right hand, doesn’t matter — I’m amphibious.”)

I had never seen an amphibious pitcher up close.

Most of the day, though, was just the ordinary glory of baseball. The chatter from the dugouts. The kids chasing after foul balls in the parking lot. The unmistakable whipcrack of a fastball hitting the sweet spot in the catcher’s mitt.

My brother and I talked about important issues. Fishing. Snacks (he is pro-pork rinds; I am not). How the Braves need to get off the stick and sign Freddie Freeman. We did not talk about Ukraine or inflation or the state of the union. That doesn’t mean we don’t care about those things. It just means we chose not to dwell on them for a little while.

If you are reading this newsletter, I’m assuming you are an engaged and enlightened citizen. We might not agree on some things, but I’m going to guess that we all pay attention to what matters. Sometimes that can be overwhelming. Doomscrolling is more real than ever, and it’s easy to get sucked into a spin cycle of fury and tragedy and hopelessness.

It’s important to our sanity — at least it is to mine — to have some sort of release valve, somewhere we can take our mind away from the bushfires of the day. It helps us catch our breath and return to the urgent stuff with more energy.

This baseball trip was a combo platter for me. I got to watch some ball. I got to hang out with family. And I got a nice long drive in each direction to clear my head.

It rained all the way back on Sunday but I took a side trip down into Lumber River State Park near the little town of Wagram. A long dirt road fed into the woods and finally ended in a picnic area. I was the only one there. I got out and went down to the edge of the old blackwater river and just watched it flow for a while. It has flowed since there were no such things as baseball or presidents or countries, and it will likely be flowing when we are all gone.

Somehow that made me feel better. I got in the car and drove back toward the city, ready for Monday.