Greg's Dunn Essay
You might not know it now, by the looks of me. When you see the years of mashed potatoes, corn bread, pizza, and pasta shaking around what used to be my waist, you might not know it now. When you see the hint of gray in the perimeter remnant of what used to be collar length '80's hair, you might never even guess. But it's in there, hiding in the remnant, holed up under the years of dreams that reality pushed aside. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, when I drift off into what used to be myself, I can still feel it. Feel it right there in my hands, right here in the right now, in the hands that time has left wrinkled with age, if not with use. I can feel it in my hips, as they turn, in my elbows as they extend, in my wrists as they explode, and in my soul, as I hit it..........right on the sweet spot. I can still feel it. Even now. There's really nothing like it. Nothing quite like hiting a fastball, knee high, middle in, and pulling it into the gap.
I liked it more than hitting home runs, to be honest. Not that home runs weren't great, but a double, that was the best feeling, the feeling in my hands. That little jolt of electricity that runs from your hands to your soul when you feel the ball give in to the force of your swing. With a home run, you trot around the bases, wrapped up in what you just did. But with a double to the gap, you run: to first, firstly, then round the bag and run some more, to second, secondly. It's about doing, not done. With a home run, that's it, it's over. With a double, the pressure stays on, runner on second, in scoring position. Take a modest lead, enough to let the pitcher know you're there, and you mean business, but not so much that a big oaf like me gets picked off. Rally on. Game on.
My high school had no baseball team. We petitioned the school board more than once, and more than once we were turned down, given the excuse that "It would disrupt our track and field team." And I do not doubt that it was true. So, for me, my baseball career ended at the age of 15, the last year I played summer league youth baseball, as I chose thereafter to work through the summer, not to play American Legion ball. My dream ended there, too. But it started somewhere in my early days, toddling about with a yellow plastic bat, and a white plastic ball with holes in it. It started, I'd have to say, at Grandma and Grandad Dunn's. There on the sacred field of concrete, with a car port support beam for first base, a brick or chair or license plate--whatever we could find for second, and a big round rock sticking up for third, that's where we truly found..........home.
We all got a lot of at bats at Dunn field, Lori, Teri, Chris, and I. Many hours we spent hacking away at that little, holy, white plastic ball. What better training for learning to hit a curveball than trying to hit a wiffle ball with some spin on it, especially if there was any wind present? Sometimes, you hated that ball. Which is why it felt so good to be the one to finally break the thing beyond any recognizeable roundness when it had finally taken all it could take. Plastic can only take so much punishment. Eventually, Chris and I moved beyond wiffle ball, and took up hitting walnuts past the fence, beyond Dunn Field. Sure, they make a mess. But they make a pretty cool zinging sound when they rocket off the bat. So do rocks, for that matter. And we took a swing or two at them, as well. Any projectile that I could loft into the air and take a swing at was fair game. Anything, just to be swinging a bat. And I got pretty good at it, too. It was the first time I truly fell in love. Maybe the only time.
When not swinging a bat at some projectile or other, I was watching others do it on TV. Obviously, I watched a lot of Royals games. But I also watched countless Braves games, Cubs games, Cards games, college games, any games that I could get my eyes on. And so did Grandad. Grandad and I talked about a lot of things as I grew up, and he grew older. My favorites were God, family, music, and baseball.....especially baseball. He told me about the baseball trip he took in the service, taking the train from one city to the next to see the games. He told me about my Uncle Tom, and I don't mean the guy in the cabin, but rather the relative of mine who'd, by all accounts, have made the big leagues, if not for the war. He told me about the double-header he saw where Stan Musial hit 5 home runs. He told me about the way the game used to be, and the way it should be again. But mostly he just told me about baseball. He told me he once hit against a pitcher who used to play in the Major Leagues. I wonder if that pitcher knew that he once faced a Major League family man. Maybe, if our priorities were lined up right, his grandchildren would talk about that day, too.
A few years after graduation, my high school finally got a baseball team. It seems some school board member's daughter wanted to play softball. So they started softball and baseball teams. I suppose there's a lesson in there somewhere, too. Other Butlerite's diamond dreams live on now. Mine died at age 15. But it all started in Mountain Grove, MO, circa 1971. That's when the love began, I'd have to say. Wiffle balls, walnuts, and the occasional rock. Countless games watched with a true lover of baseball. I don't recall the first game I ever watched with Grandad; but I do recall the last. The last game I ever watched with my Grandad, Don Dunn. At that moment, it was just another game, like so very many we'd watched together before. But it was the last, and I do remember it. It was the summer of 1996. It was a Braves game, I don't recall the opponent. But I do recall a home run by a young center fielder named Andru Jones. I can't say Mr Jones has much in common with Don Dunn. But I always think of Grandad when I see him. And I suppose I always will.
These are the things I remember most about visiting my Grandma & Grandad Dunn. Anybody want to pitch me a few?
(Isaiah's Sweet Swing, family tradition)
(Josiah, taking a bite out of that ball)
