Paradise Experienced

Six Lines is excited to present an exclusive article by Milwaukee Brewers reliever Ray King. Despite the intense pressure he's under given the current playoff push, King has been able to step back and consider the situation in which he has found himself. Just yesterday, whilst visiting Houston, he even stepped back too far, finding himself in the perfect position for an opposing fan to dump beer on his head. Unperturbed by this moment in what he calls "the time-base continuum," King went back to his seat in the bullpen to *ahem* pen for us his musings on the present, the future, and whatever comes after.
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On the Hopes of the Barleymen
By Ray "The Philosopher" King

As I sit here observing the outfield grass - grass that has been molded, weaved, and ridged in a checkerboard design, announcing to all who may soar overhead that yes, this is baseball - I realize things. These things are profound; dare I say it, they are beyond the minds of most men I have the good fortune of sharing this bench with. I will be hurt for saying this, I know. And I deserve whatever pain this truth entails, for I have hurt my teammates by questioning their being. It doesn't matter. Calling my coworkers idiots is something I have always been fated to do. Just as nature has led me to be a relief pitcher, so has it also led me to be an arrogant academic. I am what is known by those in the know as a "cereb-realist". I understand what is real, I process it, and I relay it to those who are less informed. That is why I am writing to you, dear reader. You are less informed. Yes, it would appear you are less informed on most things.

Notice where I am in relation to "the box."

In any case, as I continue to stare at the outfield grass, I wonder, "What would happen if the grounds crew simply let the grass grow? What if this patch of land were left to its own device, sans fertilizer, sans human protection from weeds? What would grow here?" The opportunity-cost of cutting the grass can really never be known. It's possible that this area of land, if unattended, would provide the breeding ground for a new breed of grass - a grass, perhaps, which could cure cancer. More intriguingly, the cross-pollination of weed, grass, and baseball player sweat could give rise to a species which would straddle the oft-unapproached line of flora vs. fauna.

Being a black athlete, I possess the inherent ability to challenge "sanctified" borders. Predictive geneticists may already have rejected my proposal of a man-plant hybrid under the pretense that "such a creature would live only in a state of utter, unapologetic, photosynthetic pain." Yet I know that the only pretense at hand is the one that supposes my proposal wasn't rejected racially. Here I do not speak of the black race, but rather of the race of baseball players. Not once have our biological hypotheses, developed over innings and innings of contemplation, actually been considered by the science community. This is an affront to history, and, more accurately, this is a risk history may not survive.

Still, I concede that any understanding of risk must be specified as an unknown variable. Economists attempt to convince us that there is a tangible quality to opportunity-cost, but I have already proven there is not. People worry that my Brewers will not make the playoffs. I, on the other hand, worry that we will. It is never counterintuitive to wish against one's own success. The limited definition we have of success in the present may in fact prevent greater happiness in the future. We cannot know. One path may lead to utopia; the other to dystopia. Or they may all lead to the local strip club, where a girl named Misty pretends to be impressed that you're an athlete. Oh Misty, I should have known you named yourself after misfortune.

Again I look at the grass, where I see that a tiny ant has somehow found his way to the tip of a blade. An amazing achievement indeed. Here, in this most pesticidal of environments, an ant has managed to not only break the stadium's defense; she has managed to secure a pulpit from which to proclaim her progress. This is, it would seem, a step forward and away from beer, all enfolded in one mighty soul.

In a second, the groundskeeper spots the intruder. A spray bottle is sprayed, and the ant falls back to the earth. Motionless. Dead. Forever. What seemed to be the peak of success was gone like that (snap). A paradise experienced proved to be nothing more than a paradise lost.

Are the playoffs the peak of the blade of grass I'm climbing? Or are the playoffs the earths towards which I'm being hurtled? Of course, I cannot know. All I can do is pitch.