Posted by: normanlgreen | May 11, 2013

Dream, May 11, 2013 A League of Her Own


Dream, home, 5:10am

A baseball league for women in their 90s. A summer baseball diamond on a white dry day.

I have been asked by an American poet to help umpire the game. We meet the teams. I pin a white ribbon with chrysanthemum shaped badge to a tiny woman who wears recently curled hair. She is confused by my presence, but taken with the ribbon.

As the game commences, the poet and I stand behind second base, out of line with the pitcher’s mound. White hair on women as they step up to the plate to take their swings. The infield is incomplete, so when a batter hits a pop-up over pitcher, I instinctively step forward, catch the ball and tag second base. Since I am not a player, we let the woman stay at first base. I remind myself to stay out of the game.

The second batter has the curly hair of the woman on whom I pinned the ribbon, but she is too far from me to focus on her face. She misses the first pitch, swinging seconds after the ball crosses home plate. On the second pitch, she connects. The ball is driven past the pitcher at knee level, but as there is still no second baseman, the ball bounces into the outfield. It looks like our friend has hit an in field home run. Everyone cheers for her to run. By the time she rounds second, she is slowing. She tags third base then doubles back on herself and walks to second. Someone behind me has retrieved the ball but thrown it wildly: it rolls past the backstop and into the crowd who stand and cheer for the batter.

The poet and I trot up to where the runner mills about second base. Her face shows that dementia has removed all understanding of where she is and what she is to do. She looks at me in fear. I point to the ribbon pinned to her shirt and ask if she remembers my giving it to her. Her face softens into a smile. The poet and I pick her up and carry her to home plate, since she has already tagged third base. I realize how tiny she is, four feet tall and nearly weightless.

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Responses

  1. Beautiful, Norman! I’m so enjoying your dreams, but this one in particular resonated with me in a good way; my mom had Alzheimer’s. Keep dreaming and writing!

    • thank you, ma’am for the encouragement. nlg


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