Catch

     The baseball rolled past my feet and startled me as I reached to turn a page in the book I was reading. “Dui bu qi!” I heard a child’s apologetic voice call to me as the orange clad figure hurried towards the ball with a baseball glove on his hand and an ear-to-ear grin on his face. He grabbed the ball without so much as a sideways glance to me, intent on continuing the game of catch with his matching bright-robed buddy. Their shaved heads glistened in the last warm rays of the late afternoon sun as the ball sailed back and forth between them. Bouncing around through the cluster of palm trees the boys’ gleeful shouts and innocent giggles were the cause of more than a few smiles on the faces of observers.

     Twenty minutes earlier I had sought the cool relief of this palm tree cluster, hoping for some time alone in the shade to read. I had been playing catch for almost 3 hours on the main road of the Dai town Man Luan Lei that we were staying in. The weather was sunny and my mood was the right one for a good game of catch. The dirty white ball made a smooth soft arc as it sailed through the baby blue sky and soared under the blistering sun to Morgan’s glove. All the eyes of the socializing villagers were on us. I watched Morgan prepare to throw the ball back and smiled, as I was poised and ready to receive it back into my glove. It was just as it had been countless times before. The ball flew towards me and I heard the musical smack that has signified remnants of structure in one part of my life. The rough, worn leather that is molded perfectly to the shape of my hand, and the smell of my sweat, brought back a flood of memories. The 11 summers spent on the diamond of my dreams, playing the game that reassures life will go on appeared to me as my young 16 year old mind reflected on how much that ball and those gloves mean to me. As the ballplayer in me was awakened from her winter slumber, my adrenaline started rushing and didn’t stop. Even as I walked away three hours later red as a lobster just freshly boiled and with the knowledge that my hibernating arm and shoulder wouldn’t be able to move in the morning, the adrenaline didn’t slow. I still wanted more.

     I was half-heartedly getting into my book a few minutes later, sitting under a palm tree when an 11 or 12-year-old monk boy approached me. I had seen him watching me play from a distance all day and knew he was interested. “Can I have a try with my friend?” He timidly asked me. As I handed over the gloves and ball, I saw his eyes light up and the excitement escape in a huge grin. He ran to his friend and they worked on figuring out how to put the gloves on. I sat back against my tree, watching them and hearing their continuous chatter that was only interrupted by their own fits of giggles. At first, I was reluctant to interfere in this learning experience, which I thought should be their own; but after they worked for a bit with only the success of getting the glove on the wrong hand, I felt compelled to help. I wanted their first-ever game of catch to start off on the right foot. I took the ball in my hand and tossed it to the boy who had gone to the other end of the clearing, to illustrate how it should be done, and then retreated to my tree to observe the event with silent joy.

     Their rhythm as they got going was somewhat skewed, but it didn’t matter to them. The more they had to chase dropped balls into the garbage pile and past their audience to retrieve them, the bigger their smiles shone and the louder their laughter rang out. Morgan kept calling out to them to be careful, to watch their step, to watch their heads, and to not fall into the town garbage pit. I reminded her more than once that they were children, that the ball wouldn’t kill anyone, they needed to learn for themselves, and a few whacks on the head would only build character. The boys paid her no heed anyways; they were completely absorbed in learning how to control the ball and gloves.

     I looked around me at the Yunnan landscape and allowed myself a moment of uncensored introspection. The palm trees, the rice patties, the temples, and even the monks themselves spoke volumes to me as to the differences between my own country and this new one I had come to know and love. Staying in the small villages and seeing these people express themselves through songs and dances that I could not understand taught me that we all are plugged into this world through different types of connections, and each connection is special and unique to itself. On the outside, the contrasts could be no more different. Yet, watching their faces light up as mine had the first time I played, I was reminded that though every fact pointed to the differences and separation of our worlds, our communal citizenship to the human race must not be forgotten. In that moment I was able to see through those boys’ race, religion and culture, and into a newly discovered world where I found myself connecting with the raw heart of humanity that beat with the same steady beat as my own.