The conclusion of the baseball season always brings to mind a few paragraphs from a novel by New York Times Bestseller, and my favourite writer, John Grisham. Although Grisham has gained notoriety over the last 25 years for his legal thrillers, he has written non-legal novels as well. One of which is “A Painted House” that was published in 2000.
The book is about a small boy,
aged seven, growing up on a cotton farm owned by his grandfather in rural
Arkansas in the early 1950s. His favourite team is the St. Louis Cardinals and
as the baseball and cotton seasons wind down, it’s becomes painfully clear that
neither the Cards nor the cotton are going to be successful.
The following paragraphs are the
boy’s thoughts after the last Cardinals’ game of the year and these words sum
up how I feel at the end of every baseball season.
As
we left town I thought about the end of the season. Baseball began in the
Spring, when we planted and when hopes were high. It sustained us through the
summer, often our only diversion from the drudgery of the fields. We listened
to each game, then talked about the plays and the players and the strategies
until we listened to the next one. It was very much a part of our daily lives
for six months, then it was gone. Just like the cotton.
I
was sad by the time we arrived home. No games to listen to on the front porch.
Six months without the voice of Harry Carey. Six months with no Stan Musial. I
got my glove and went for a long walk down a field road, tossing the ball in
the air, wondering what I would do until April.
For
the first time in my life, baseball broke my heart.
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