Wednesday, November 2, 2011

True Beauty

     In the glove of America’s youth rests a beautiful thing. A baseball. It has captivated both children and grown men for ages, and its simple magnificence is unparalleled. When it is not chosen for use, it is all too often relegated to bearing the name of a man whose fame and glory have since passed, and to sit upon the owner’s cluttered mantle. This, is not a baseball, it is a travesty. A baseball’s true beauty is brought forth through use! A baseball is beautiful when it is aged, marred by dirt and covered in grass stains, scarred and faded, dirty and dusty. Its red seams are the lifeblood of its suitors, telling stories and recollections of better days, its scars a symbol of tougher times that have since passed. A baseball’s beauty lies not in its color or sheen, but in its resilience! It’s withered and tattered, possibly even, God forbid, ruined, for it has lived a long and prosperous life. Each scar has a story, a trial that one would rather forget. The one closest to the MLB logo is from a nasty ‘one-hopper,’ let through to the outfield, another from an error at first. Its spherical shape allows it to dart and dive, to challenge and even baffle hitters. It fits into a hand perfectly; proving that it should always be there, crying for attention. It has allowed itself to be hurled into the air and clubbed by bats at its own expense, and has been rewarded by fathers and sons with another chance to present itself to the world as it was intended to be. This baseball has been an important part of many lives, has been passed down from father to son, and has lived to tell the tale. A scar, a sorrow, a seam a story. This baseball has fulfilled its purpose; giving itself up for another person. It is tattered, dirty, stained brown, scarred, and torn and it has become truly a beautiful thing. That is why it rests in the mitts of America, and in the heart of the world.
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