I’m seated on the couch, pace the kitchen, take cups of water to Evelyn and her friend at the swingset, and grind beans for coffee. There’s a power-line static in my chest and mind; its adrenaline is a sit, stand, sit, walk, and sit again rhythm. I’m a hamster whose owners just landed in REM. The forgotten WD-40 tunes the wheel to a deafening pitch as I run, gripping spoke to spoke, releasing spring-loaded energy.
I can’t watch. The three-run lead has turned into an insurmountable deficit. Out of sight, out of mind. I’ve removed myself to the dining room to supervise the girls painting and to chill out.
In high-stress situations, I become superstitious. It’s like a trance where I bargain with the gods as hope sets on the horizon. I never cared anyway, I tell myself. It’s just a game.
Those dang Mariners are breaking my heart, and the loss has toppled my balance.
A little fresh air—the backdrop of still-framed, animals and boot-shaped clouds atop a light sky blue—becomes a Rorschach, a place to project my fragmented mind.
What is it about sports that makes me crazed? Like Suárez’s jaunt instead of a mad dash down the first base line on that first out of the ninth inning. Would it have changed the outcome? Likely not. But his laying it all on the line instead of showing defeat is what I look for in the greats.
My high school basketball coach had us run on and off the court, no matter what. In a playoff game, knowing we’d lose, not one of us pulled the volume back. It was all out. All the time.
Because whether you win or lose, you get my respect if when leave it all on the field.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 