I have never wanted a baseball game to go faster. Or a wait at an airport Departure Lounge to
go slower.
That second one doesn’t make sense; who wants a wait at an
airport Departure Lounge to go slower?
It’s just that recently, I experienced those contrasting examples of
sitting, and although time objectively proceeded at the same speed on both
occasions, there was a recognizable difference in my reaction to them.
I started wondering, “Why do I hate the wait at the airport
Departure Lounge so much?”
I actually figured it out.
It helped that I had a couple of hours to think about it. Though I would have preferred tremendously not
to have needed to.
It is not the egregious wasting of my time. It is difficult complaining about the egregious
wasting of your time knowing you squandered hundreds of hours wallowing in
wall-to-wall coverage of the O.J. Simpson trial.
Nor was it the unswerving totalitarianism:
“You will sit in the molded plastic chair until we tell you
get up!”
They are actually lightening up in that regard. If you’re ticket’s stamped “Pre-check” – as
older passengers’ tickets now regularly are – you no longer have to remove your
shoes and your belt. (Which will last
only until terrorists recruit “Senior Citizen Suicide Bombers.” (“Come on.
How long have you got anyway?”)
The real source of my fulminating irritation (sometimes I
actually froth at the mouth) is the following:
The waste of time is externally imposed.
It’s different if I voluntarily
waste my time. But how dare anyone waste
my time for me!
Enter, by contrast, the exquisite
rendition of sitting:
Watching a ballgame.
(Note: These
issues are connected. We were confined
to the torturous airport Departure Lounge awaiting a flight to Phoenix, to visit
longtime friends and take in some Spring Training baseball.)
I realize that not everyone likes baseball. Some people may actually prefer sitting at the
airport Departure Lounge. (“Can you
recharge your iPad at a
ballgame?”) For me, watching a ballgame
is a relaxing meditation. Which, unlike actual meditation, offers the added
advantage of peanuts, cold beer, and in this case, as we attended a Cubs game, authentic Chicago Italian
beef sandwiches.
Plus, sometimes, something happens down on the field.
That’s an cheap shot.
To those understanding its intricacies, baseball involves simultaneous
chess games. Between the pitcher are the
batter. Between the fielders and the
base runners. Between the opposing
managers, who may appear to be
sitting in the dugout mainlining sunflower seeds, but are, in fact, calculating
numerous moves ahead. (When they are not
hocking prodigious “loogies” and scratching themselves in inappropriate
places.)
Plus, during Spring Training games, there is the additional
personal drama.
I watched two “at-bats” in a row featuring aging ballplayers
struggling desperately to extend their careers, followed immediately by a
rookie whose name was not sewn on the back of his uniform, a telltale indicator
that, barring a monumental Spring Training performance, he is designated –
maybe permanently – to the “minors”.
A disappointing performance meant the unalterable end of a
dream.
And I was watching it play out in front of me.
Added to these enlivening elements – proximate strangers
engaging in interesting conversations, comfortable bathrooms (no more peeing in
a trough) and, of course, the hint of spring in the air, which hits Arizona
first before making its way to Los Angeles, a welcoming preview of Vernal
attractions.
It was a wonderful weekend, catching up with good friends,
frequenting a hotel on an Indian reservation.
Though I admit to one disappointment.
On my previous Spring Training excursions, my enjoyment was
greatly enhanced by the company of my friend’s grandson, whose thorough
understanding of baseball made me substantially savvier concerning the inner
workings of the game.
This year, however, I was deprived of his companionship
because while Dr M and I were watching the Cubs,
my encyclopedic baseball guru, now twelve, was participating in an
age-appropriate ballgame himself.
I hate it when other people’s lives interfere with my
personal wishes. Butt there you have
it. I had to watch the game without him,
asking myself the questions I would normally
have asked him, and discovering, not
surprisingly, that I was ignorant of the answers.
The next day, however, I enjoyed the rewarding satisfaction
of watching him play. His team was
soundly defeated, but as I told him after the game – and I meant it…
“When I looked at you out there, I could not tell whether
you were winning or losing – you played exactly the same way. It was a pleasure you watch you perform.” (Also, his rocketing single between shortstop
and third base shot past the infielders so quickly, they remained frozen statue-like
in position, his execution so efficiently professional I thought I was back at
the Cubs game.)
It’s interesting.
“Poisoning” is never good. But
“sitting” – sometimes it’s excruciating, and sometimes it’s sublime. It’s like there should be two different words
for it.
Maybe I should work on that.
Let’s see.
“Sitting” and… “scruciacating.”
No.
1 comment:
I find it helpful never to think of myself as "waiting". On security lines at the airport, I am not "waiting". I am reading The New Yorker; at some point security will interrupt me. In pre-departure airport lounges, I am working (usually). It's all about what you define as your primary activity.
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