On Sunday, Rachelle and I took the dog to Christie Pits to watch some baseball. Walking there, we passed by yard sales, church dances, lost dogs and millionaires.
The walk took about half an hour, and when we got there, the first thing we did was buy some popsicles. We then proceeded to seek out a shaded patch to call our own. An older man, spotting Rachelle and our Daschund, shouted out “Why do they call them Timex and Rolex?” We did not know what he was talking about. “Because they’re watch dogs!” He shouted, bursting into a big, silent laugh and then giving me a high-five as we passed.
The game was part of the semi pro Intercounty Baseball League, and it featured the Toronto Maple Leafs playing against the Mississauga Twins, who for some reason wore glittering gold batting helmets, which made them look a little bit like Martians. Both teams started off slowly, playing as if they had really bad hangovers. They dropped balls, missed cut-off men and just generally seemed to have their minds elsewhere.
No matter, everybody else was distracted, too. A father took his two year-old boy over to visit the third base coach, who was, perhaps, his grandfather. A man in his 70’s, the coach wore the uniform of the Maple Leafs and had the wise and weathered look of a farmer. He placed the boy, somewhat precariously, on top of a bicycle that was leaning against the fence, so he could get a better look at the game, at one of the Maple Leafs getting thrown out by five yards at second base.
A family of four sat on a blanket beside us, their 12 year-old boy torturing his 8 year-old sister by tickling her back with the weeds he had picked from the ground. Just beneath us on the slope was a tiny dog that howled with desperation and sorrow, when her tattooed tough guy master trudged up the hill to get a drink, and she was left alone, tied to a tree, for two minutes. And past them there were four people playing Frisbee, one of them appearing to have never seen the marvel that was a Frisbee before. With a huge, child-like grin on his face, he kept striking at the Frisbee, like the game was to knock it out of the air.
And further beyond them there was the Latin American Festival. Tinny music drifted over and through the ballpark, carrying with it the scent of barbeque, and eventually, in small groups, people got up from the baseball game and walked over. Becoming a part of something new, they joined the crowd of costumed people dancing, vendors selling plantains, religious icons and t-shirts and women basking in the sun, before returning, carrying plastic plates heavy with food, to see how the baseball game might end.
It was a beautiful day, and you could see the good in it. It was unambiguous. It was right there for you to look at, to touch and taste, if you wanted to.