An April 15 to remember

April 15, 1947, was the day Jackie Robinson started for the Brooklyn Dodgers, becoming the first black man to play Major League Baseball in the modern era. The day has become an annual celebration of inclusion and diversity in baseball, and I can't imagine a better one than we had yesterday--at least for the teams whose games were not snowed or rained out amid this spring's tempestuous weather.

At about the same time political junkies were glued to ABC News (and I'll get around to reading the George Stephanopoulos-James Comey transcript later today), baseball fans were riveted by a pitching duel for the ages on ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball. On one side, the Texas Rangers and journeyman pitcher Bartolo Colon, who will be 45 years old next month. On the other, the Houston Astros and Justin Verlander, the longtime Detroit Tigers ace who joined the eventual World Series champs during their playoffs push last summer.

Colon took a perfect game into the eighth inning before giving up a walk and a double in that frame. He would have been the oldest pitcher ever to hurl a no-hitter; it was thrilling to see him get that close. Meanwhile, Verlander surrendered just one hit, a home run, while striking out 11 batters over eight innings. The final score is almost superfluous in a game like this one, but the Rangers prevailed 3-1 in 10 innings.

Earlier in the day, the Seattle Mariners played the Oakland A's at Safeco Field. Both teams had battled in long games on Friday and Saturday nights, so their offense was sleepy. But it was a fun day at the ballpark, as always, and an especially exciting day for me: The seating host line-up card had me down on the dugout for sections 122-123, a plum post I'd never had. (The regular host, Jill, had the day off.)  I got close-up views of our guys all wearing number 42--Robinson's number--and I got to dance with the Mariner Moose and his mascot buddies atop the dugout during the 7th-inning stretch. There's a pretty good chance I was on TV a time or two, right behind Nelson Cruz's shoulder.

Before the game, I had a good conversation with a longtime fan, Kitty, who handed me a stack of baseball cards to pass along. She'd just had her own Ichiro Suzuki card signed by the great outfielder who has recently rejoined the Mariners (and who signed autographs for a good 15 minutes after his workout). We traded notes on growing up as baseball fans--her Tacoma Giants, my Pittsburgh Pirates. On top of all that, the Rockford Peaches were in the house, too, or at least their 2018 doubles: a group of fans dressed up as the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League team made famous in the movie A League of Their Own.

Baseball is a wonderful game, with layers upon layers of history and achievement and human drama. It attracts generous people, on and off the field, and it makes my heart glad. If you love baseball, too, you know what I mean. And if you don't, thanks for reading this anyway.

The Hall of Fame plaque for Ken Griffey Jr., who led the way to create baseball's annual Jackie Robinson Day. Griffey, who usually wore number 24 for the Seattle Mariners, wore Robinson's number 42 on April 15, 1997, to raise awareness of Robinson's achievements. The number has since been retired throughout Major League Baseball--except when all players wear it on the annual Jackie Robinson Day games on April 15. 

'Melancholy: A Way to Happiness'

That's the title of a chapter I read this morning in Ageless Soul: The Lifelong Journey Toward Meaning and Joy by Thomas Moore. I'm enjoying this book. In it, Moore notes how we age throughout our lives--and about how it's natural for melancholy to increase as we get older and see more illness and death in our lives.

Mom, me, Dad

Today marks the sixth anniversary of my dad's death, so it's naturally a melancholy time of year--especially since my mom also died in early spring. As difficult as it is to face the loss of loved ones, I've always felt grateful that my parents both passed from this Earth in its time of rebirth. Spring softened the blow in both cases, even though their deaths could not have been more different. I was just 25 when I suddenly lost my mom; I was 50 when my dad died after years of decline. Both deaths helped prepare me for future losses, but my father's much more gradual passage was much more profound to me because I was old enough to process it in all its complexity.

I remember how, when I was living through my dad's difficult final months, I sometimes referred to the experience as my "holy days of obligation." As his daughter, of course I felt bound to help him through his final days as he and my mom cared for me as a child. That was the obligatory part, the often-difficult work of tending to the ever-shifting needs of someone wrestling with cognitive decline and physical pain he frequently could not articulate.

But it was an unbelievably holy time, too. I remember one evening when I wearily left Dad's apartment, crossing the parking lot to catch my bus on a nearby corner. A full moon had risen and I spontaneously broke into song:

Spirit of life, come unto me, sing in my heart, all the stirrings of compassion ... *

It was a preview of even more profound times to come, culminating in the day Dad said goodbye, three days before Easter 2012. On that day, as my brother and I sat vigil knowing the end was near, the stirrings of compassion became more real. With the help of an angel from hospice, we learned what it means to have a good death.

Moore writes how sadness is part of growing older. We don't need to rage against it; in fact, if we can sit with our melancholy, it need not turn into existential dread or depression "but instead only one strand of mood among others." And that is how I feel this rainy April day: As the best-laid plans sometimes shift and some long-held dreams recede, we learn acceptance and perspective. Or, as Moore says, "If you can allow melancholy its place, you have a better chance to be deeply happy."

* Spirit of Life, a beloved Unitarian Universalist hymn. Words and music by Carolyn Dade.