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A Sweet Spot in Time

by Matt Waters

 It’s the sweet, precious, moment in time. The natural high adrenaline can bring, the one second where it feels as if we could skate right on the Milky Way, defy gravity, the rules, the expectations, defy our common denominator of humanity.

It may happen once, twice, it may not happen at all.
I never realized why I loved playing Baseball so much, and that was the beauty in it. The unknown, intangible quality that we all seek in life, that missing void filled by work, possessions, and basic companionship. Ask how the sun feels when it brightens the night come morning. Impossible.

Ask a player how it feels when he finds the sweet spot. When his arms completely collapse in weightless synchronization, when his eyes immediately scan for the ball, which travels through the sky as a sheer testament to individual accomplishment.

How does it feel?

It fills the void.

And than it is gone. Vanished. One day a would be Draft Pick wakes up in the morning and realizes that he couldn’t carry Jason Tyner’s batting gloves.

 It’s funny. Once the feeling isn’t there for me anymore, once the ATM machine of legitimate, self-made success disappears, continued disillusion in the fun house reflection of life, I begin a vain attempt to explain it. Perhaps I don’t want to forget how to dream. Perhaps I don’t want to forget the Sweet Spot in time where dreams not only come true, they surpass a reality where truth and fiction even exist, surviving and thriving on a higher plane all their own.

I’m rambling. The saddest part is, my view of the players in the upper deck seems further removed at the dawning of every single new season.

It is winter now, the temperature dropping, the sweat shirted hoods of my make believe thug brethren oozing the landscape in Shopping Centers and long deserted parks. It was my first spring and summer without holding a bat within my grasp, staring down the bane of my existence, the pitcher.

See ball. Hit ball. Fly.

It’s gone. Rustling down a busy Boulevard with all the verve of dead leaves, just passing through, servicing time. A maddening line drive right at the center fielder. Just another fruitless, insignificant gap in what lies as the infinite.

I miss it.

Now I write about sports, or want to anyway. I was eager to see if I could capture that feeling with words. Possess the sublime with vocabulary. It was the best I could manage.

It’ll do. Reality for the multitude of us, more often than not, actually does.    

– Some Philosophical Ex-Jock.

By mw2828

Matt Waters is a screenwriter currently living in New York. He has been writing about sports since age seventeen, about the time when it became painfully apparent that his athletic dreams would go unfulfilled, due to terrible luck and an obscene lack of talent. His favorite movie is “The Thin Red Line”. His favorite band is “Modest Mouse”. His favorite sport is baseball! With an exclamation point.

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