Weathered Baseballs

By Frank Petrignani

During lunch I like to leave the office behind and go walking around the baseball field about a mile down the road. I started doing this at a time in my life where I was so stressed I could barely sit still. Somehow, walking that field and finding baseballs brought me a sense of relief. I still walk the field today…with less dread.

I always start my ritual of hunting for baseballs the same, standing behind home plate and taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly. My body begins to relax as I enter a state of calmness. A smile slowly starts to form. The best is when the grass is freshly cut. I breathe in deep, close my eyes and take in the sweet, earthy smell.

I’ve found a lot of baseballs in the outfield grass. If I’m not wearing my glasses, I usually don’t see them until I’m within a few feet. For some reason, I don’t like keeping the baseballs left on the infield. It’s almost too easy and I feel as if I didn’t put in enough work to earn the right to keep them. It may also be that I don’t need to get lost in the outfield.

All of the baseballs I find are worn, weathered and left behind for a reason.

One day, not so long ago, I was at the field for lunch and was walking out to left field where I spotted a baseball on the freshly mowed grass. Suddenly, a dog came from behind me and scooped up the ball in full stride with its wet, slobbering mouth and pridefully began bringing it back to its owner. “You were here first, that’s your ball,” she told me. I told her it was all good and I had a bucket full at home. As she walked closer to me, I could see pain on her face. I told her if she wanted space, I would go to the other side of the field. She said no and we began talking. Her name is Brenda and the dog’s name is Proboscis, named after the large nose monkey native to island of Borneo in southeast Asia.

Brenda told me this field was special and brought her comfort. Her son, Thomas, had passed away young, and Proboscis used to be her son’s dog. Thomas adored animals and really loved baseball. Every year on her son’s birthday, she comes to this field with Proboscis and they find a baseball. Brenda brings these baseballs home in her son’s memory.

After Thomas passed on, Brenda told me she couldn’t function emotionally. She didn’t have the heart to keep up with her small business, bills piled up and eventually she was evicted from her apartment. Before she knew it, she was homeless. Not knowing where to go, she lived in her car in the parking lot directly behind the field. It was where she felt safe and where she was comfortable. “This field is special,” Brenda told me.

I know it is.

Brenda told me the man in the navy blue Cadillac Escalade, who always parked in the back row of the parking lot in front of the woods, is also homeless and parks his home at the field. “I always wondered what his story was,” I told her. Every time I’ve been to the field, he always looks at me when I pull in and I turn my head right and look at him. We’ve never said a word to each other. A mutual and peaceful understanding. 

Recently I was at the field when I saw a member of the town’s parks department staff meticulously weed whacking the uneven grass edges around the infield. I told him Brenda’s story. Kenny said, “Frank, it makes me feel really good she finds comfort in something I work very hard at making sure it always looks great.”

Then he told me how the man who lived in the blue Cadillac now lives in the beige Buick parked behind his truck and trailer. The car and parking spot are different. However, the man is still wearing the same grey sweatshirt.

Two years ago, I collected 36 baseballs at the field. Collecting them brought me peace and often saved my sanity during what was a very painful and traumatic year. Sometimes I’d cry walking the bases, wishing I could take my wife’s pain after she was diagnosed with cancer.  I’d walk the field in deep thought and study the baseballs I found. 

The weathered baseballs I collected are very similar to human beings.

Some of the balls have weathered too many storms and will never be the same. Brenda lives in sadness honoring her son’s memory. Some of them are scarred from a lawnmower blade, permanently changing both above and below their surfaces, similar to scars left on humans from surgeries. I know from experience with seven incisions in my body. If people saw all my scars, they would probably think I don’t move too well – but I do! I often tell my athletic kid, “There is a day you will be faster than me, but that day is not today.”  

There is a pride in knowing these baseballs were passed over by those who judged their appearance and felt how rainy days changed their dynamic.  It brings me joy to provide them a second life. When I throw these baseballs across my backyard at the orange bucket full of water, they still move with velocity and accuracy. Splashdown!

A few of the baseballs I collected are weathered and their cover is no longer as tight around the yarn as it once was. The last time my friend Sal, who moved to North Carolina, saw me he said I had new creases on the sides of my eyes that weren’t there a few years ago, and my age was starting to show. I’ve heard stress leads to wrinkles. 

My wife and I, now in our mid-40s, used to joke about how silly it would be to get botox and try to make each other laugh to see if our faces and skin would move. I don’t think either of us stress appearance quite as much as we used to. We have lived and know with age comes a mature look that has seen life. The stories these weathered baseballs could tell.

Some of the baseballs I’ve found beneath the trees on the right side of the field have endured many storms and are waterlogged and heavy. My body does not process as quickly as it once did, and I am a little older and a little heavier, too. However, like life, it has a beautiful side to it. 

Scarred, waterlogged and looser skin, the older we get, we all eventually become weathered baseballs, and it certainly does not mean our best playing days are behind us.

If anything, Leah and I are tougher and stronger than we’ve ever been, and we have more to offer the game than we ever did before.

Frank Petrignani worked as a newspaper reporter after earning his bachelor’s degree in the early 2000s, and enjoyed writing columns based on his life experiences. In his 40s, Frank missed writing and founded a writer’s club, while also creating a monthly open mic night for writers night on Eastern Long Island. He hopes readers take something meaningful from his stories.