It's been two weeks since my visit and I still think fondly of this trip. While the glossy sheen of the moment is long past, I'm still so happy I could be there.
THE historic 18th and Vine? It felt absurdly surreal. Then going into the museum was moving and spiritual. This place felt alive. It felt full of memories and long forgotten stories brought to the big stage.
Everything was curated with such a meticulous hand, yet my one (tiny) critique was that everything was a bit claustrophobic. I wish I would have learned more about the different leagues, the different players, the varying and overlapping timelines at a more leisured pace (however, this problem seemingly will be rectified as a bigger place will be built).
It felt like your favorite library/book store nook. It felt like sitting in front of a cozy fire. It felt like the sound of soft, steady rain. I am not by any means romanticizing the past. The awful, sickly horrors Black Americans had to dodge by the second were on full display. The unveiled, open hatred for Black, Hispanic, and Native baseballers were acknowledged at every turn. The lip curling rage pumps the blood. Then, there'd be something to make you smile, to make you rejoice, to make you linger at that placard a bit longer. While you knew the racism was there, the pride in this subculture was an invigorating jolt to the system. The poise, the grace, the true elegance far out weighed the ugliness.
My true regret is not showing up and showing out. How dare I not dazzle and sparkle as the occasion demanded. Next time, I'll be sure to not look as though I'm raking leaves (which is exactly how I looked in my shorts and plaid shirt).
When asked how I felt being there, it was like trying to describe the beauty of baseball. Just sit back, watch, cheer, and be swept up in the moment.
