Note: I know I do not utilize this place much anymore, but with my Dodgers in the World Series for the first time since 1988 and facing elimination by the Houston Astros in Game Six tonight (on Halloween!) here at home, I’d be remiss as a life-long fan if I didn’t post up the following fantasy that I SO hope becomes reality:
I had a vision last night. It is of a tomorrow not too far from now. Not too far at all on the calendar, but to get there we must leap across a wide and deep chasm tonight that so many are saying we cannot and will not clear.
In my vision we take that leap and we do end up on the other side where there stands a man on a hill in a field. He is surrounded and protected by his fellows and the field is encircled with the love shown him by the cheering and supportive throngs. But in the midst of all that joy and support the hill he stands upon is a lonely, lonely place. In his right hand he holds his weapon of choice, a palm-sized orb of bright white leather and red thread, with which he is so well practiced and so highly skilled.
He is a dignified, respectful man, wise beyond his 31 years, who in the direct face of a recent reprehensible and disgusting display of racist ignorance and derision — with the world seemingly clamoring for him to respond to it with furious condemnation — instead he returned a calm consideration and a thoughtul decency requiring so much more strength to deliver.
Swaggering forth to face that young man from a five-sided white pentagon embedded in the earth — an equally lonely place — comes the insulting enemy. He has been labeled a beast and called a monster, but he, too, is just a young man, though one infinitely less wise than his 33 years. On his head sits a helmet that shields his grotesquely styled locks from view and in his hands he wields his weapon of choice, a strong and well-turned staff made from the hearty wood of an ash tree, with which he too is well practiced and so highly skilled.
The cacophonous chorus of cheers for the man on the hill turn to a tempest of torment for his opponent sixty feet and six inches away as the two settle in and prepare for battle amidst the deafening din.
With laser precision and able command of a wicked wizardry the man on the hill flings the orb twisting and turning, rising and dropping in a succession of launches toward the pentagon where the pineapple-haired hater tries in vain to launch it into the air and beyond the field entirely. The first is swung at mightily yet missed entirely. The second is fouled off into the crowd, which then rises as one cheering louder. The third he watches go low and beyond the reach of his staff. He starts to chop at the fourth but pulls back at the last possible millimeter as the bottom drops out too soon and bounces in the dirt before him. He crowds in for the fifth and the man on the hill brings it in high and tight forcing him to twist out of its way.
And the sixth? Well, that comes after both men step aside amid deep breaths and deeper thoughts to gather themselves. And when it does it is a righteous freight train perfectly straight down the middle that he freezes before and can only simply stand and watch as he is slain.
And the surrrounding crowd in unison with all those across the land joyously cry out “Yuuuuuuuuuuuu!” And that man on the hill was not so lonely anymore.