A Different Time. A Different Season.

It was a different time, it was a different season. In those days little boys dug in the dirt and battled with toy soldiers. They clamped playing cards to the spokes on their bikes to hear the repetitive flip… the snarl, thump, and rolling buzz of a tiny engine. Your flannel shirt suddenly became a leather jacket and your attitude had a Marlon Brando smirk written all over your overconfident whisker-less face. 

And, they played ball! Lots of it! Organized games, sure. Junior League. Little League. Senior League. But, it was more than that. It was Pick-up Games… and, a hot game of 21! Grabbing your ball, glove, and bat as you jumped on your bike to ride through the neighborhood seeing “who wanted to play.” No uniforms. No sponsors. No official teams. No scoreboards. Just bragging rights; and best of all… No adults! 

Then… there was creating the original fantasy league by matching wits with Billy, Charles, and Tom… Major League aficionados in the friendly confines of a whiffle ball field right in my own back yard. The wicked curve balls. The hollow whap off the bat. And… the whistle as you watched and listened to a long drive to left field sail into the trees for another Homer! 

It was a different time. It was a different season. 

And yet even today, my mind can go there… to that time…to that season… to remember… to be reminded again.

It reminds me that joy was once uncomplicated… not because life was easier, but because expectations were lighter. We didn’t wait for perfect conditions. We played with what we had.

It reminds me that belonging didn’t need permission. You didn’t need an invitation, a title, or a jersey. You just showed up. You brought your bike, your glove, your bat, and your willingness to play.

It reminds me that effort mattered even when no one was keeping score. We played hard, argued calls, fought, celebrated wins, and shook it off when we lost. Somehow, we mysteriously, and maybe miraculously, understood the game itself was the gift.

It reminds me that imagination is a muscle… and, can still be used. When it’s exercised, ordinary things become extraordinary. A flannel shirt became a leather jacket. A backyard became a Wrigley Field. A plastic ball that scooted in the grass, danced in the air, and flew into the trees became a memory-maker.

And maybe most worth revisiting: That season knew how to end the day tired and satisfied… you know, the “good tired.” Not drained. Not emotionally exhausted. Not the tank on empty. Just spent in the best sort of way.

Those times and games taught me something I still, at nearly 77 years of age, need to remember: Life isn’t meant to be managed all the time. Some of it’s just meant to be played.

Lord of the Big Game, help me recover what that season seemed to instinctively know: how to show up, stay present, give my best, and find joy again in simple things that still carry Your cleat-prints in the dirt.  

It was a different time.

It was a different season.

But the wisdom of that season still has a rolling buzz: Don’t forget how to play. Don’t forget how to belong. Don’t forget to imagine. Don’t forget to love. Don’t forget how to live.

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For Best Things…

Craig