One of these days, and maybe soon, I’m going to clean out all that stuff from the trunk of my car.
It’s going to happen because it has no business taking up space in there. None whatsoever. Not any more, that’s for sure.
I should have done it three years ago, to be honest. But I tend to hang onto things a little bit longer than I need to, and … well, for crying out loud … for a while there in the back of my mind I thought that maybe — just maybe — I might get the call.
That call didn’t come, of course. And with each passing year, that big old black duffle bag filled with my old softball pants, three or four my softball shirts, some long-sleeved T-shirts for those cold days, two of my favorite ball gloves, three balls, sliding shorts, etc., just seems to scream out at me to admit to reality. My ball playing days are long gone. And they aint never comin’ back.
I went in my trunk the other day to pore through the contents, and everything was there. Everything I would need in the coming spring if my old teammates called me back into action, explaining how it’s just not the same any more without me. And could I please return for one last tournament so I could stroke one of those line drives between the centerfielder and rightfielder and motor all the way to third base while the ball makes its way toward the fence.
Truth is, I’ve been retired for three years. I’m 58 years old now and probably couldn’t make it to second base even if I did get ahold of one and drill it into the gap. And I probably can’t hit the ball that far any more, anyway.
No matter. So three years after I retired from my fast-pitch softball days my trusty duffle bag, with the broken zipper and torn corners, still sits in my car trunk waiting for action. Begging for action, in fact. I have sincerely retired. But the tools of my trade — from my bats to my gloves, from my long white socks to my half-used tube of Icy Hot (which is now as runny as water) — awaits the call. The call that will never come.
For most of my adult life, the trunk of my personal vehicle has been the reservoir of my softball tools. Always ready for me, so that all I had to do was hop in and drive to tournaments near and far. I’d open the trunk and everything I’d ever need for my own little heaven on Earth ballplaying experiences were right there at hand. I was like a turtle who carried his indispensable items right there on his back — except that mine were always there in the trunk of my car.
I’ve never been very good at letting go of the things I love. I’ve still got more than a couple of old shirts hanging in my closet that my wife, Sandy, has tried to get me to toss for years. But I like ‘em. They’re still comfortable to wear. I don’t want to let them go without a fight.
But I’ve gotta grow up. Face the music.
So one of these days I’ll climb into my trunk, pull out the old equipment, dig a hole in the back yard, and resign it to the ages. Maybe I’ll invite a few friends and family for the occasion. And play taps.