Center Field

Last week, in these very electronic pages, in a post entitled Declarations of Loyalties and Disloyalties, the legendary Dayn Perry, among other questions, asked:

In your dreams, what position do you play?

Center field, yo. There’s no doubt.

Growing up, I was a portly young lad. As much as I wanted to play second base, and emulate my idol Roberto Alomar, I didn’t have the speed, or the range. And probably not the arm. I wouldn’t know; I never got to the ball. In the brief time I spent wheezing around the middle infield, my UZR was Jeter-esque. It wasn’t long before I found myself behind the plate and, finally, at first base.

Years later, having shed the excess poundage, I’m a beer league center fielder. I’m the captain of the outfield. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Is there a better view? The catcher’s, maybe. But that’s hell on your knees.

I live for the chase. That moment the baseball meets the bat; when the ball is launched into the air, and the center fielder is pressed into duty. There’s nothing quite like getting the perfect read on the ball, and making a catch in stride, at full speed. There’s nothing quite like making that split-second decision to dive, to get your uniform duty, and nothing quite like sliding on fresh grass, the baseball in your glove, another out made.

Watch, from the corner of your eye, a baserunner head back to third base on a fly ball to center field, readying to tag up. Beg him to test your arm. Make the perfect throw.

Climb a fence and bring back a baseball destined to leave the yard. Meet, in mid-air, for one fleeting moment, the Baseball Gods. It’s the height of defensive baseball consciousness.

Center field. It’s where I want to be, and want to remain. There’s no better position.

Image, of undoubtedly a future center fielder, courtesy Erica McDonald.