Let That Sink In

Few people recall their eighth-grade graduation since there aren’t storied traditions associated with one's transition into high school. Caps and gowns can be worn out of a profound love of heavy fabric on a sweltering day, but only by thirteen-year-old masochists. Young crazy people with an eye titled towards a lifetime of bullying.

Yet I remember all of mine. While I’ve lived many lifetimes and passed into adulthood several times, there’s one particular passage that stands out above the rest. Surprisingly, it’s not the stomping of grapes on the estate of a 17^th century Corsican winemaker, though that, for a child who detested footwear of any kind was a kind of a heaven on earth. Or at least heaven on the Mediterranean. There were others, too. The riding of camels, the loading of trebuchets, the playful swordplay of sworn classroom enemies. Still, my favorite graduation occurred in New Jersey, at Liberty State Park, towards the end of the 20^th century. 

Some children gathered around the playground. Others filled glass bottles of Mott’s apple juice with a similarly hued liquor and spent the rest of the afternoon writhing on a picnic table in melodramatic, drunken agony. But that wasn’t most. There was a one boy in attendance who did it his way. He was a man-child. A teen who’d been shaving daily since he learned to walk. Recess was a triggering affair, since it called to mind the retreat of his once glorious hairline, so bold and pronounced in elementary school, now reduced to covering the metal slide in forgotten follicles.

The point is not to revel in his pubescent baldness, but to say only this: he had reasons to feel angry. He needed an outlet. A way of getting through the day and feeling better in the morning. Because whatever was in those apple juice bottles wasn’t doing the trick either. The boy hauled a bucket of baseballs, 50 or so in all, lugging them onto the bus and into the park. He brought a bat, too. Alone, and on the edge of the walking path, he stood facing the Upper New York Bay, where the Hudson and East Rivers meet for a dance to the Atlantic Ocean. Nodding to the tidal whims of the saltwater, he launched one ball after another into the water, ignoring all who crossed him. He was here to let off some steam, one baseball at a time. 

Just let shat sink In. He sure did.