LESSONS FROM RIGHT FIELD

   

I started taking guitar lessons when I was 12.      At first I struggled to understand the concept of music. I have heard that those who are good at math find it easier to grasp. I’m more philosophical by nature, so for me, music was far too specific in theory to make sense to me. When I say that I was “philosophical,” I mean that I was a dreamer of dreams—daydreams, that is. I used to fantasize that I was some kind of hero or star athlete or famous guitarist.

        I thought that it really mattered if you had some kind of special outstanding talent or achieved some incredible feat that other people would admire and even, if you will, almost “worship.” I was not particularly talented in any of the areas that seemed to be very important in the social world of a kid in those days. I tried—heavens knows I tried—but, alas, the harder I tried, the more ridiculous I looked and felt.

        Two things come to mind about that.

        The first comes with an event that took place when I was in the six grade. During what was called “play period,” there were often games of softball. The choosing up teams was always an awkward moment for me and for a few other kids, but I always knew the drill. It went something like this: “You guys get Foster. We had him yesterday.”

        So I would head out to my usual place—way out in right field where nobody ever hits a ball, and there I would hold my post, so to speak, hoping the bell would ring soon to call us back into class. But on one particular day, while I was out in the field biding my time, I could hear a commotion up toward home plate, everybody was looking out where I was. I didn’t get it. What was going on? For some reason which I can’t recall, I took my hat off and a ball landed in it, which was the last out and whichever team I was on, apparently won because of it.

        There was more than a little excitement over that and the next day I was especially ready for the choosing up of teams, and the word came forth: “You guys get Foster. We had him yesterday.”

        I’m not looking for violins of sympathy here. I’m quite all right about all that. What I will say is that it was a learning experience, but the lesson wasn’t immediately obvious. In fact, it was years later that I realized that no one ever said to me, “You’re not good enough. You can’t play with us.” i.e.-acceptance wasn’t based on my skill level. It was based on friendship.  Would that our world-at-large could be so open and accepting.

        The second thing that comes to mind is that Paul Stokey of Peter, Paul, and Mary, wrote and performed a song called “Right Field,” which tells a story of an almost identical scenario of being automatically assigned to be in right field, only the boy in the song catches the ball legitimately in his glove. The last verse is:

Then suddenly everyone's looking at me
My mind has been wandering; what could it be?
They point at the sky and I look up above
And a baseball falls into my glove!

Here in right field, it's important you know.
You gotta know how to catch, you gotta know how to throw,
That's why I'm here in right field, just watching the dandelions grow!

        So what’s the point? Well I think the point could be that we never know in our lives when just who we are and where we serve will become a very important element, solution, contribution, or saving grace in the unfolding drama of life. Might be in a smile, a word, or a touch in the humblest of settings.