Mets 6, Indians 0. Matz, in a shutout comeback, struck out nine, and Kid Conforto doubled twice. It was a great game.
So, the title of this post is the title of an amazing baseball documentary that I encourage everyone to watch. It’s about an independent baseball team in Portland, Oregon, during the 1970s. Even if you’re not too into baseball, you’ll find something in this film, because it’s more about the deep mythic heart of baseball and what the sport can be outside of the constraints of an official league. It’s about how human the game is. And it’s really funny, too. You’ll learn what a “Jogarza” is. It’s on Netflix.
I was ten years old and half the size
of the players on the field,
and I climbed the steep stairs up to the last row
of Shea Stadium and chose a seat in the wind
and sky hundreds of feet above
the wash of green and the clay borders
of the infield. A speck of a man below
charged through deep centerfield, performing
calculus by running as he tracked the arc
of a fly ball that never reached as high up
as I was. I felt so small, tiny and perched
up in the sky like a crow on a wire,
but I heard the crowd’s roar growing
like a turbine accelerating
and the only thing louder
than the crack of the bat was the thrust
of jet engines above, planes that took off
from LaGuardia, and down below,
my father, a blue dot along the rows
of orange seats, kept score.