Deafening Vibrations

Matt Wilson peeked out of a cold, dark moist tunnel and into a surrounding that immediately lit his skin on fire. The eighteen year old phenom felt the vibrations from the high decibel noise, becoming overwhelmed for what turned into a long moment. A teammate and close friend, Jack Hunter, smacked him hard yet playfully on the top of his right shoulder blade signaling that their special time had come. “It’s here Matty” he said “It’s really here, can you believe it?” Jack, wearing jersey number nine, didn’t wait for a response as he turned and strolled away soaking up the excitement as well. Matt shrugged his shoulders and smiled widely. His eyes were glistening with the moisture and twinkled in the glare of the sun. The charcoal that was just about painted under his eyes to prevent the glare and twinkling process was failing him. It just about always did. And for a fleeting second or two, he actually thought about just that. “This shit sucks” he thought “someday I’ll invent better, something that actually works…” He quickly went back to absorbing the vibrations. Jack was correct, truly it was their special time…a time that took not just several months to materialize, but lifetimes to come together. Matt was still smiling, even though his eyes were still watering with the intense emotion. He had that look of being extremely focused, a look that everyone around him had come to know. He was focused on himself. He was focused on his team. He was focused on the opponents. And he was focused on a win…a win that would lead him and his team to the inevitable prize…a prize that included fame and fortune. He was more than ready to take the field; still he had a few minutes before his team would do it. So Matt took that time to drift back into some thoughts, neglecting to think about fame and fortune, for he wasn’t that type of person. The muscular though incredibly agile man who stood a mere five foot ten with a well proportioned one hundred and seventy pound frame was pure stone. Chiseled like a mythical Greek god, well maybe not quite that detailed, he had one thing missing from his impressive portfolio of character. Ego. He possessed no ego of any kind. So while this extended moment of overwhelming sensation gripped him, it was for a vastly different reason. Pride. Pride in himself because he had made it this far through a never ending barrage of turmoil and adversity. Pride in himself because he felt confident that his teammates would end this magical season as the last team to win, sealing the evidence spent on a life long goal, desire, and quite frankly, obsession. “Great job, Matty, in getting us here” Coach Ryan told him as he patted him on the ass. “Need one more, baby.” Again, Matt just looked back and smiled. He nodded. That was his trademark before, during and after games. His smile and a nod would always stand out. Before the games, they were motivation in the bank. During games, they were a calmness to almost every situation brewing. And after games, they were satisfaction, if not for the results, then definitely for the effort. Today was a lot like any other day for Matt. Sure, today was the big game, winner take all. But Matt didn’t see it that way. His perspective was just a tad off from everyone else’s. He knew it was a winner takes all type of thing. But he refused to put any pressure on himself. Fact is, when pressure came around and called him out, he coolly walked away with a smile and a nod, saving himself for the game itself. That was vintage Matt. He couldn’t stop the overwhelming excitement though that ran through his body. Standing in that tunnel’s doorway, it was as though he couldn’t control his smile. The vibrations he felt were indeed deafening, several thousand fans raining their own praise and excitement on him and his team. And those fans were all decked out in red, white and blue, the team’s colors. The scene was just before game time, in the late seventies, on a picture perfect day for a championship baseball game in the minor leagues. The stands resembled a New York City subway during any rush hour…wall to wall people packed like sardines. The temperature was in the mid eighties with a high sunny sky at the Fairgrounds, otherwise known as All-Sports Stadium. And the smells that permeated the ballpark were all baseball, the distinct aromas of hot dogs, beer, and shelled peanuts. The field itself felt like it was about a hundred degrees, especially around the infield, where it was nothing more than concrete, an incredibly thin pad of whatever a public relations guy would call it, and almost a just as thin covering some called Astroturf. Okay, spare the concrete metaphor, but it was a unanimous opinion of the players that whatever hard ground was below the padding lacking of padding was concrete. Just ask any of the legs that bore the scars from sliding anywhere around the infield; whether it was dives for ground balls, leaps for line drives, or even sliding in the alleged dirt and clay they called the base areas. The bottom line, every set of uniform pants had repairs to them where they were torn out sliding. And every set of uniform pants had some permanent blood stains from the players who wore them. This was before the time that pampered players in the present wear things like sliding pants or fields in the present are so soft that players honestly enjoy sliding and leaping and rolling around the field.