Alone in the Outfield: Achieving Enlightenment or Insanity?
In a world where every moment is filled with notifications and digital noise, the baseball field stands as a wireless wasteland. Here, players cope with their digital detox by engaging with teammates, exchanging whimsical emojis crafted from their own faces, and finding camaraderie in this offline realm.
Outfielders, though, meet a starkly different fate. Stranded in the vast expanse, sometimes 90 or 100 feet from the nearest soul, they are left devoid of all distraction. Alone with their thoughts, they confront the wilderness of their own minds. Inning by inning descending deeper into endless thought.
The Philosopher
1st Inning:
Here, I am an outfielder for the Giants. But why is our team’s name so basic? If Boston and Chicago named their teams after socks, should we be the elbow guards? Oven Mitts? Cups?
2nd Inning:
Watching my coach in his uniform, I wonder, why is he wearing cleats? Is he secretly prepared to pinch-hit? Will he shave his beard and take the field like a 19-year-old at the Little League World Series? I have enough competition already. This is too much.
3rd Inning:
As I look to the infield with my binoculars, I wonder if they forgot about me. They look so happy together. The only one who speaks to me out here is the roar in my stomach. If this game goes on forever, when do we get to eat the snacks?
4th Inning:
In a world of injustice, I wonder if I too am a victim. So many people lose out on opportunities without just cause, and then we call for the necessary change. Yet here I am not allowed to play 2nd, 3rd, shortstop, or catcher.
Why? Because of my completely legitimate fear of ground balls, no, for my handedness is left. My kind has been thwarted for too long. Shall I stand up to my coach and his discrimination? Or suffer forevermore?
5th Inning:
I've started giving names to the blades of grass around me— Larry, Curly, and Moe. They're not much for conversation, but they’re great listeners. I've been practicing my motivational speeches on them, and I must say, they've never looked greener.
6th Inning:
Our batter’s up, and he’s adjusting his helmet like it’s a crown. Maybe he's pretending he’s in the big leagues—or a medieval knight. Oh, wait, I’m up next.
7th Inning:
Why do I subject myself to a game where failure is the norm? Where my bat seems to betray my every command, and as I continue through my excruciating downturn, my coach has forced me into a hellish façade called optimism.
I grapple with the notion that perhaps it's not about mastering the game, but embracing the relentless pursuit and the lessons it teaches me. Swirling in depths of turmoil I beckon distraction, but she doesn’t answer.
8th Inning:
I believe I have transcended hunger. I feast on my thoughts alone, nourished by the richness of solitude. Here in this vast expanse, I find myself no longer a player, but a philosopher of the field. Have I become the outfielder not just of a game, but of life itself, left to wonder if the game we play is just a metaphor for the greater game played beyond the diamond?
9th Inning:
As the shadows lengthen and the crowd’s roar fades to a whisper, I ponder whether I will persist here, living off the land of ideas, forgoing the clamor of modern man. Although, with each passing moment I'm reminded of a different call—the familiar one of home.
Mother ordered pizza, and though I am loath to leave this land of ideas, the promise of dinner pulls me back. It's a perilous shift from enlightened solitude to superficial chatter and endless scrolling, but just when I think I've made peace with the mundane, an unexpected delight seals my fate… chicken wings.
References
- OpenAI’s DALL-E “Graphic” Generated May 5th, 2024]