The book-up

At this time, every year, I read the first chapter in this amazing book called Baseball and Philosophy. This chapter is about the idea of home and all of its metaphorical and philosophical implications in the game of baseball. I've written about it several times in my various blogs, and I bet some of you regular readers are nodding your heads and saying "yes yes, I remember," or maybe "god dammit, is Alli going to go off on one of her baseball metaphor rants again??? Can't she find ANYTHING ELSE to write about?"

Well, no. Some things don't change, and my deeply rooted obsession with connecting baseball with Home is something that wont change ever. So get over yourselves.

So, Sunday night as the Mets game played through my apartment I went into my room and looked at my bookshelf in hopes of pulling down the book and reading that chapter. For months and months I've wanted to write a piece on how I feel about the Mets, how I feel about "home," and I thought Sunday, opening day would be a perfect time to do so. I use the book for reference. The problem is, the book wasn't there.

This always sets me into a panic. I'm head over heels in love with my book collection. And the inability to find this particular book at this particular time was a very weighted thing. I scanned the shelves again, and again. I looked in my living room, in our solarium (the office...), and nothing. And then, all of a sudden, I remembered that months ago I had lent it to a boy - a boy who was one of my oldest friends, and lovers, who I haven't spoken to in months because he, well, something that had a bit to do with him caused something inside me to, um, die. Basically.

All of a sudden I paniced. All of a sudden I thought, he take take himself out of my life as a lover, I can handle that. He can take himself out of my life as a friend, I'm learning how to handle that. BUT he CANNOT take my BOOK. This is not acceptable! I was suddenly innundated with recollections of how DC - where he lives, and I am from - is no longer home. A shell of a city, a place that holds memories, like a ghost town, empty, heart-broken like a stadium in the month of November.

So a day later when I calmed down I sat down at my computer and wrote an email simply asking him to send my book back (God dammit... but leaving that part out). Turns out, he doesn't have it. All of that irrational anger over nothing. I love baseball. Seven whole months of intense passion, intense anger and unwavering patience and determination that boils down to (or over into) some of the greatest victories, and greatest losses in American history. Love. It.

I thought real hard when I read the email that said "listen, I looked everywhere, it's not here." I racked my brain. Who else, who else on earth would I lend THAT book to. And then I remembered.

I gave it to my friend John. He's a new friend. I remember the first thing I said to him ever in life was "Nice shirt" when I saw him sitting at a computer in a bright red T-shirt that said "Damon Sucks." John has a tendency to text me after every time we hang out saying that we shouldn't wait so long until the next time. In fact, he's such a good friend that I am actually friends with him even though he's a Cowboys fan. THATs how great he is. I wrote him an email asking if he had the book. He said "I do have it. We'll have to hang out and trade that book for my mets
ticket." A relief. And John, he lives in Queens. Home.