The Church of the Holy Child Choir, in which I am an unremarkable second soprano, sang “God Bless America” just before the start of the Friday evening, July 12, Wilmington Blue Rocks game. The Blue Rocks are a minor-league baseball team affiliated with the Kansas City Royals. On July 12, their opposing team was the Salem Red Sox, from Virginia. Ninety-one of us from our church, including the choir, made the trip from the church parking lot to the Daniel S. Frawley Stadium on two sleek Delaware Express coaches.
Many of the bare facts of the evening would not lead you to think that I loved it, but I thought ahead of time that I would, and I did.
In the moments before we sang, the Blue Rocks’ mascot, Rocky Bluewinkle, posed with us for pictures. Mascot Mr. Celery made no appearances during the game because the Blue Rocks didn’t score any runs. They won the makeup game—needed because of the prior day’s storms—played just before ours, but until after the conclusion of that makeup game, our choir was cloistered, standing on the side of an access road outside a fence separating us from left field. Our “green room” was a sunbaked, chewing-gum-infested patch of dirt and grass from which we could see the high overpass carrying I-95 but see nothing of the action on the baseball field. It was possible, however, to see the scoreboard over the fence and so track the makeup innings moseying past. Our buses arrived at the stadium about 6 p.m., and we finally took the field for our brief performance about 7:30.
Other than a slight case of indignation, I didn’t much mind the long, uncomfortable wait because I knew our fun would eventually arrive. But the long time standing in the heat and humidity caused two women in our choir to come close to fainting; one was unable to recover in time to sing with the group. When you weigh our discomfort against that of, say, refugees who, after traveling many hundreds of miles, must wait for days in the heat at the U.S. border only to be herded like ill-treated cattle into holding pens, the comparison is between our grain of sand and their mountain. I will say, however, that the existence of situations infinitely more difficult than ours didn’t give our hosts justification for keeping a largely senior-citizen choir waiting on our feet in the heat for well over an hour. Fortunately, on arrival, our church members who were not in the choir were able to take seats in the stands.
While we waited outside left field, our wonderful young choir director took us through a few warm-up drills, and we sang a practice “God Bless America.” I chatted with some of the other women and stood a while with my own thoughts. I was determined not to feel like the odd-woman-out, in spite of my being a newcomer to the church, and I didn’t feel like an outsider, in large part because of the friendliness of others but also in part because of the resolve within me to love the evening entirely.
Finally the time came for us to line up. We hurried—trying to keep our two parallel lines in a semblance of order—past third base and home plate until we took our places on the field between first base and the stands. Rocky Bluewinkle knelt in front of us; family members and our priest—who had been standing outside the fence with us—snapped pictures; our director took his place, blew an F on his pitch pipe, and cued the singing. We opened our mouths and vocal chords for the brief climax to it all. Here we were, after months of anticipation, after rehearsing our parts in our choir room, after selecting our sizes for the golf shirts our priest ordered for us with the Church of the Holy Child 50th-anniversary logo on them (“Rooted in Faith – Growing together” and a tree with spreading branches and roots), after donning our shirts at home, along with the khaki pants we had each come up with to wear.
I sometimes struggle to stay in the moment, as one is advised to do to keep life from skidding by and to arrest consuming worries over the past and future, but I was absolutely in the moment as we sang in Frawley Stadium that Friday evening just after 7:30. The next day, the wife of one of our talented tenors shared a video. Watching myself, I’m reminded of an excessively enthusiastic kindergartener who plants herself in the middle of the front row and emotes during her class’ special concert. The cheerful tension in my body as I face and lean toward our director would have worked well had I been preparing to win the 100-yard dash. My mouth opens wider than anyone else’s on every note. The video continues a moment after the conclusion of the song: most choir members look relaxed and relieved; I keep grinning. And throughout the brief song, I felt as thoroughly happy as I looked.
I should explain that I am less affected by the heat than many. After our singing, once I’d located my seat in the stands, I found the weather pleasant—warm and humid, yes, but with a slight breeze. For several minutes, the Sun shining on our section of the stands hurt our eyes. But once the Sun dropped below the stadium walls, the air softened into, for me, an embracing summer night. The Moon, three days past its first quarter and kept company by Jupiter, floated above the stadium behind us.
I had trouble following the game. The section I was in was nearly directly above the patch of field where we had sung, but the cage around home plate somewhat obscured the action there, and not a lot of action was to be had. A few of our Blue Rocks players looked especially small and young. Before boarding our Delaware Express coach, I’d known nothing about the players or their team’s fortunes, and I hadn’t learned any more by the time the coaches dropped us off back at the church about four-and-a-half hours later. I like baseball, but the game itself that night was for me a stage set, a context, rather than the main event.
The extravagant fireworks display following the game was worthy of a major city’s 4th of July extravaganza. Children’s races and birthday celebrations between innings, less than spectacular ball playing, long lines for food (which I did not attempt to procure)—not to mention our choir’s pregame “green room”—did not lead me to anticipate the evening’s culmination in magnificently layered chandeliers and exploding stars.
Overall, some might call the evening uneven, but I call its gestalt glorious, with each element contributing: our boarding the comfortable coaches, our bus’s route past my high school and the neighborhood where I grew up and lived in recent years, the races and other antics staged between each inning, the uneventful game unfolding on the field, my sitting in the stadium with folks whom I have come to care about from seeing them at Mass or in choir practice, and even our long exile outside leftfield.
The entire evening is bathed in the joy of our singing. I have always loved to sing. When I was an elementary-school child in the Wilmington Friends Meeting, a woman named Evie Young, who was somewhat older than my parents, played the piano every Sunday morning for us children to sing hymns and other songs before Meeting for Worship. Evidently I practically drove my parents out the door if I thought we might be late for the singing. Throughout my life, singing has been one of my favorite activities—singing at camp during meals and around a campfire, singing with my parents around the piano, singing in a congregation, singing in a choir, singing and playing the guitar or piano with friends in college and in recent years. And here we were singing at a baseball game! It wasn’t Citizens Bank Park or Fenway Park; the ball players weren’t the Yankees and the Dodgers, but I was doing something special I had never done before. I was singing at a ballpark with the choir I now love, and my joy overflowed.
I had no trouble in singing “God Bless America” with feeling. Our country—the entire world—is profoundly in need of God’s blessing, given through each one of us filling our nation and planet with kindness to all people everywhere, with an absolute commitment to working together for the common good of all, and with an unrelenting dedication to healing the Earth. How could I not have sung “God Bless America” with sincerity and enthusiasm?
Landmark moments, such as Friday night’s, trail after them other life moments with which they are kin: seeing my parents holding hands as we walked through the Montreal baseball stadium on our way to an Expos game, watching the Moon rise behind the fireworks on the miraculous Labor Day my parents and I spent together at Winterthur, playing softball in the yard behind our house and hitting the ball far beyond the reach of the boy with whom I was playing, watching game 6 of the 1975 World Series, the game when Carlton Fisk hit a home run to tie the series for the Boston Red Sox. I was watching with the couple who shared dorm-parent duties with me at the Maine boarding school where we taught. After the game, the couple and I drove around Augusta in a celebratory excursion with no destination and no purpose other than happiness.
Trying to will oneself into happiness in the middle of pain, crisis, or loss may be impossible. But Friday night showed me once again: deciding that a potentially pleasurable experience will, in fact, be filled with pleasure and interest can help me ride safely across small rip currents that otherwise might drag me down, if not into unhappiness, at least into disappointment. The resulting pleasure is genuine, not forced. The real joy inherent in the experience has been uncovered and released.
On Friday, I was not in the least disappointed, and I am blessed with new happy images to add to my long life’s vast collection of memory keepsakes.