lizzierybackwrites

[lizzierybackwrites]

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Home plate seems like a logical place to start. I was a catcher, after all. 

I never played baseball, only softball, but not for lack of interest. I like to tell people that when I was a little girl, my dad told me I couldn’t play baseball, but in truth it was less overt and more implied.

I’ve been thinking a lot about home lately, and not just home plate. 

My Marlins lost 6-4 to the damned Atlanta Braves tonight, damned only because they have an uncanny ability to constantly beat the pants off us. It was a loss largely due to home runs, and untimely walks. It’s so familiar it's almost comforting. Ever the superstitious fan, I mentioned to my mother, “I don’t want to lose this game,” on my way to say goodnight to her. Is the familiar where home resides? If that’s the case, I should’ve felt right at home tonight, but instead, I was restless.

I’ve lived in a few different places in my 33 years. I was born and raised in south Florida, and I’ve lived briefly in different spots in central and northern Florida, too. I did 7 years in Nebraska, which was a good dose of culture shock. I got to experience 101° at home and -26° in Omaha in the same year. 

My two brothers and the roots they’ve set down in the last 14 or so years reside in Cleveland, Ohio. Like many families, we’re spread out. California to Philadelphia, then down here to Broward County (Ft. Lauderale), and up to Cleveland in the middleish. My father, deceased, was born outside of Cleveland. His uncle and one cousin have been there more or less their whole lives. But it was my Marlins that defeated the Cleveland Indians in 1997, to win it all 4 years after becoming. I was 4 when Charlie Hough lobbed the first pitch in Marlins’ history before a sold out crowd at Joe Robbie stadium in Miami Gardens.

I saw so many innings in the heat, weathered endless late night Pro Player (neé Joe Robbie) rain delays. When I couldn’t be at the stadium, I listened with rapt attention to TV broadcasts where Tommy Hutton would teach me the difference between a slider and a curve. He’s my Vin Scully, the tone and pitch of his voice an indicator that I could leave it all alone for the next 9 innings, at least.

Is the familiar where home resides? Next to nothing about Cleveland is familiar to me. Visits here and there, good times and excursions, sure, but familiar is swampy heat. It’s the taste of sweat on my upper lip as clay falls out of my catcher’s mask and curtains in front of my face after a throw down to second.

We’re moving, my mom, dog and I, up to Cleveland next year. Our roots have shriveled up, cast into the ocean with a small box of ashes. Infield dimensions are regulation in major league baseball. The fences can come in, or move out, but home plate stays true. 12 inches on each side into the point towards second, and eight and a half inches down the sides–17 inches for the base. I’m reading a book on Cleveland baseball that Clare, my sister-in-law, gifted me. I’m learning and exploring in my own way, trying to hollow out a familiarity before I pack a single box.

The Cleveland Indians (now Guardians) started planning a grand stadium in 1927, the year my mom’s mom was born in Philadelphia. Municipal Stadium (Cleveland Stadium) housed much of the baseball history I’m familiarizing myself with, burrowing into.

The Indians played their last game at Municipal Stadium at the end of the MLB season in 1993, the same season imprinted in my mind as the Florida Marlins’ inaugural season. Construction on the site of the demolished stadium, to become the new home of NFL’s Browns, began in 1997--the year my Marlins held off the Indians for their first World Series championship.

This season, my last full season as a dedicated Marlins fan, is the 30th anniversary of my Marlins’ first season, and 20 years since our second World Series title. Somehow, as with so much in this damned sport, the stars are aligning to remind me that home isn’t always a house, a permanent, stuck place. Sometimes it's in the crisp pages of a new book holding the keys to your proverbial home.

How can you not be romantic about baseball?