
We came in off the field, hoping to get in one more at-bat. The south sky looked ominous. Still, you couldn’t tell the storm was about to hit.
Then, whammo. Large drops pelted us. Wind started. The pace increased. Then whoooo boy, it was hold onto your hat, pack your bags and get ready to run.
Except the parking lot was a couple of hundred yards away through sheeting rain that barely allowed you to see. We stood in the dugout, pretending we were protected.
That was a joke. With no wall facing the direction of the wind, the horizontal onslaught of water blasted us under the awning. Our team all moved to the far edge of the dugout, hoping it would provide slight protection. No dice.
We all congregated behind the helmet rack, 11-12 grown old men trying to hide from nature, as this position was the only place that offered a wall. We joked, chattered to each other, trying to decide whether to make a run for it.
In these situations, your clothes are saturated in seconds. The temperature dropped precipitously (15 degrees in a few minutes, to be exact). You don’t want to be there.
When is the last time you can remember being caught in a storm with no place to go? When is the last time you honestly got so wet from a rainstorm that your shoes squished when you walked? Probably a number of years, I would imagine.
This incident took me back to 1982, when I bicycled across North America, and multiple times had to withstand thunderstorms of similar intensity. Then and now, what I felt was a sense of “what the heck am I doing out here,” and then later an incredible thankfulness for having survived.
On that bike trip, there were 3-4 storms I encountered in those four months on the road. The worst was just outside Manhattan, KS. I rode into a state park late in the day to set up camp for the night. It was Midwest hot and humid. No air.
The campground was packed, easily 35-40 campers, mostly RVs, and some tents sprinkled in. As I lay trying to fall asleep, you could feel the stillness of the earth, mosquitoes buzzing the net of my tent. The ground below me began to shake. I could feel the storm, many many miles away the bolts of lightning thudding.
When it hit, my tent was defenseless. I moved under a shelter and clung to a picnic table, praying for survival. The storm blew through in less than an hour. I finally slept, nothing inside the tent dry.
In the morning the campgrounds were empty except for a few RVs, including one in the site next to me. The husband and wife came out to greet the day, I’m sure just as thankful as me to be alive. They asked, “We thought you’d knock on our camper door to come in during the storm. You should have.”
Oddly, I’d never considered that. Just wanted to make it through the night. I did.
You don’t have many moments like that in life, where you plant a kiss on the earth and offer sincere prayers of thanks. It shakes you up, makes you appreciate what you have in life – the chance to take on a new day with a changed perspective, appreciative of the opportunity to do something more down the road. Take on the day.
A wind blasting torrential thunderstorm on the baseball field isn’t the same thing as what I faced in Manhattan, yet it serves as a reminder of our fragile lives.