Take me out to the ballgame; take me out to the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack; I don’t care if I never get back….
— Jack Norworth, 1908
Spring is unpredictably crazy. Nine days ago it was sleeting at the Mississippi State baseball game. There’s something very wrong when a March day leaves ice pellets on your baseball cap.
I succumbed to picking up a few annuals but wouldn’t plant before Good Friday. The snapdragons, petunias, impatiens as well as the herbs, basil and cilantro were set in a wooden tray on the porch. As soon as freezing temperatures were predicted again I brought them inside and set the plants near the south windows. Looking at the beauties assured me spring would come.
The day was gray and chilly. After enjoying a few fair weather days of 70 degrees it seemed cruel to have temperatures plummet to 44 degrees again. In the mid-afternoon Sam and I took a drive. The daffodils had all but gone, the red buds finally showed themselves. Beautiful trees bloomed with ruby red flowers at the entrance of Plymouth Bluff. Every year I see those trees and remind myself I should get some. We continued our drive on to the spillway at the Columbus Lock and Dam. Sam likes to see if anyone is fishing and catching.
There were two cars that cold day. One car was a family with four young children. The little boy, less than 3 years, had a plastic fishing pole. He was fishing in a field of green grass when he began to cry. The poor little fellow had himself hung up. I know how frustrating that can be. Soon an older sister and a tad bit bigger brother came to his rescue. Over the rise I could see presumably a father fishing on the bank. I wondered if back home there was a wife who said, “Sure honey, you can go fishing. Just take the kids.”
The other car belonged to a lone fisherman up by the gates where the swift water rushes. He had a large white bucket that sometimes holds his catch and sometimes provides a sitting place. Sam was convinced he wasn’t missing any fishing that day so we drove on.
Down through Tibbee Sam hunted for what he remembered as “Round Head Ballpark.” After a few twists and turns we found the park’s remains. Standing though aged were the scoreboard, a press box, some broken light poles, and bleachers that were missing more than a few boards.
We sat in the car wondering what had happened to the ballpark. There’s something about a baseball park even when it’s dilapidated that causes the imagination to run wild. We heard the cheers of the crowd and smelled the hotdogs, the fans hollered long and slow “Ball four,” and the umpire cried, “Strike three, you’re out.”
We longed for the 7th inning stretch but there was only a bit of sadness and the chill in the air.
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