Our Beloved Backstop (hereafter referred to as "BB") has stood like a sentinel, watching over the diamond at BenWay Park-Rees(er) Stadium for eight summers. Not only does it serve as guardian, it also has protected against a variety of slightly errant deliveries; from the knuckler, slider and cut fast-ball (all questionable) to the patented mystery ball and hesitation pitch (legitimate and verifiable). A plethora of players, from as far away as Indianapolis, have taken their swings at the plate in front of its perch.
It also has stood watch as Ben, the elder grandson, first cleared the fence with a mighty blast in June of '08, and Rees, the younger, followed suit two months later.
As the picture above attests, our BB has withstood the withering effects of the sun's glare in the central Oregon savannah since the summer of aught-two. The strike zone shows symptoms of attrition, commonly referred to in humans as middle-age sag....not that any batter ever conceded a called strike to an un-erring, but voiceless umpire - sag or no sag. It has endured the indignity of countless patchings and re-bindings, yet still manages to nobly preside over an infield with foul lines and pitcher's mound that are non-existent.
Every Memorial Day Weekend, "BB" has been paraded out of the shed; lately to the strains of the Colonel Bogey March (think: "Bridge on the River Kwai"), and correspondingly retired every Labor Day, all performed with the fervor, if not the precision, of a drill team.
Alas, nothing lasts forever, as the characters of Toy Story 3 will tell you. Ben, now approaching his fifteenth birthday, walks around the bases, unless severely challenged. The Elder even suggested that our baseball be switched from soft hide to wiffle. Evidently, the search for the homerun ball, after the fact and beyond the fence, has become a tad wearisome. The Younger still swings and runs with gusto, and the fence, for him, still beckons. The angst inevitably returns when pondering how long these good times will last.
As Woody allowed to Buzz Lightyear, Mr.&Mrs. Potatohead, and company, "We all knew this day would come." Understandably, their owner couldn't bring it upon himself to tote along his precious relics of childhood as he headed off to college. So, it must be reluctantly acknowledged that other diversions and venues will one day occupy the place now held by "BB" and the spartan patch of turf in the backyard of 157 North Circle Drive.
Yes, Lord, it all must come to pass. But please, don't let this season be the last....for the sake of the Backstop, of course.
