A False Spring
Pat Jordan’s novel A False Spring was a very moving read.
… I think often about that day. And about the others, too, the good ones. Baseball was such an experience in my life that, 10 years later, I have still not shaken it, will probably never shake it. I still think of myself not as a writer who one pitched, but as a pitcher who happens to be writing just now. It’s as if I decided at some point in my life, or possibly it was decided, that of all the things in my life only that one experience would most accurately define me. It hardly matters whether this is a fact or a private delusion. It matters only that I devoted so great a chunk of my life to baseball that I believe it’s true. I believe that that experience affected the design of my life to a degree nothing else ever will. Yet it never seemed to end properly, neatly, all those bits and pieces finally forming some harmonious design. It just stopped, unfinished in my memory, fragmented, so many pieces missing. Over the years I have begun sorting and resorting those bits and pieces–delicately, at first–finding every now and then a new one to further flesh out that design, finally discovering the pieces had always been there and that what had been missing was in me.