TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE
My baseball playing days ended when the toe spike of my right cleat anchored in the dirt in front of home plate as I began a hook slide to avoid the catcher's tag. I wish I could claim that my future hall of fame playing career was interrupted that day, but only in my fantasies would that have happened.
After graduation from Cornell of Iowa in 1968, I began my coaching and teaching career at a small high school in northeast Iowa. I coached the boys basketball team and my teaching assignment included three sections of Freshman English. Forty three years later after a career that took me to six high schools in four states, two colleges in Illinois and a year in Dubai, I retired. It's strange that of all the thousands of students I worked with in the classroom and on the court and all the pieces of literature I covered, I remember Mike and a poem by Rolfe Humphries entitled "Polo Grounds". Mike was a special needs student who attended only one regular class during the day...my English class.
The special ed teacher recognized the opportunity to mainstream Mike because of his love of sports andan uncanny ability to read words flutently without ever retaining any of their meaning. Mike was a big happy kid who spent his lunch period every day in the gym playing one on one against no one and without a ball. He quietly announced the action as if it were the state championship game. In class he was the first to volunteer to read any passage aloud and never met a word that he could not correctly pronounce. That skill resulted in a unique respect on the part of other students.
In the anthology appeared a poem entitled Polo Grounds. A good number of years had passed since the Giants had moved to the west coast, and my first question as an introduction to the poem was, "Who can tell me to what the title refers." Only one hand was raised and that hand was waving enthusiastically. It belonged to Mike.
With the other twenty eight student's curiosity focused on Mike, he began a thorough explanation of the history of the famous ball park and the greats who had graced its turf. He included long ago forgotten players of whom I had never heard. When he paused for a breath, I stopped the monologue and began the discussion of the poem.
The refrain 'Time is of the Essence' lends emphasis to Humphries' theme. The lengthening shadow cast by the stands parallels the career of the thousands of players who have worn the tag 'major leaguer'. The shadow proceeds from the center of action, home plate, to the position of least activity, the outfield, and finally settles into the ultimate position of late afternoon, the outfield bleachers. This unique observation metaphorically parallels the game itself, the plays executed by the major leaguers, and the ultimate
outcome, retirement.
"Time is of the Essence. The shadow moves
From the plate to the box, from the box to second base
From second to the outfield to the bleachers"
Humphries final stanza applies the lesson to life beyond the game. No matter in what stage we find ourselves, the 'game' will go on.
"Time is of the essence. The crowd and the players
Are the same age always. but the man in the crowd
Is older every season. C'mon. Play ball."
I often wonder what the future held for Mike. I also wonder what ever happened to the young man who taught him in that English class, the guy who enthusiastically accepted any challenge, who looked ahead instead of back. Yes, time is of the essence.