The Thing About Dreams

It’s late September; last day of September actually. The summer is still hanging around, although the wind has been trying its best to push it away. The summer was something this year. Blue skies, trips to the beach, baseball, no homework, and cuts and bruises all around. When I was younger, summer meant no school and the sounds of baseball on my transistor radio. Each spring I would eagerly count down to the first week in April for opening day and the start of a six-month journey where dreams are encouraged and the daylight lasts straight into the evening. I remember playing softball in the schoolyard down the block from our home. We would begin early in the morning and defend our field until the sun just couldn't stay up any longer. We would play and we would become our heroes; I would be Tom Seaver pitching and then I would be Dave Kingman hitting. The dreams I held tightly in my heart were encouraged by the success I had between the lines; I was a fast runner and I would plow my way around from home plate to home plate. Bruises, scrapes and cuts leading to scars on my body. The journey around the bases was exciting as I dared each player to try and catch me; the dream of success encouraged. I didn't always get the hit and strike out the hitter; in fact I was not the best player on the field. But I had more fun then anyone else. How can you go wrong when you are living your dreams? The summer evenings were always hot. Air conditioners were not the norm back then and the windows would be wide open all night. I would keep my transistor radio underneath my pillow and listen to the sounds of baseball being played somewhere. Dreams encouraged; dreams being celebrated as the summer months peaked. I remember the summer of 1977: blackouts, heat, killer on the loose, dirty streets and death that seemed to follow us wherever we turned. Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marx, Elvis Presley and so many others. The daughter of the owners of the diner across the street on Kings Highway, killed by the media's ‘Son of Sam.’ Of course there were also the dreams that died that year for me; the dream that loyalty meant something. On June 15th 1977, the Mets traded my heroes Tom Seaver and Dave Kingman and just like that, all in one night, they were gone. Loyalty seemed nowhere to be found on or off the field. The summer went slowly that year and I waited for it to end. Dreams seemed to be turning into nightmares and I felt out of control. The thing about dreams is that they are rarely encouraged; they are looked upon as if they’re a curse and when something goes wrong we’re told to wake up and deal with reality. The thing about dreams that brings feelings of unease is the way they are discarded, forgotten and replaced—just like Seaver and Kingman. The summer is finishing now and I can tell you that I've had my share of ‘dreams’ gone wrong. Dreams of loyalty, support and courage. It’s not how the dream ends; it’s how much heart and soul you put into it to make it the best journey possible. The baseball season ended for me this September. With the Mets losing, all the success of the months before had been negated. The heart and soul of the team was lost somewhere in the dog days of August. Now the cool winds will blow more consistent, the chatter on the streets will grow faint and days will last only for several hours at a time. The comfort of the daily games are gone and the sounds of the ball hitting the bat muted. Life is too short to let go of all your dreams; our dreams can be part of our reality. In dreams there are no failures; the only failures are the dreams no one dares to take a chance on. There’s no such thing as failure, because without failure, who are we? I’d rather speak with a man with scars than one with a clear complexion. Who are we if we have not yet fallen on our face and stood up to try once again and again and again? I have my scars. Most people are sympathetic; I equate my scars with trophies—inspiration to stand up again, walk onto the field, hit the ball and run around the bases. Although these days I am much slower, I know that I will find my way back home via the base paths. Each base is its own goal and reward— integrity, respect, love and responsibility. That responsibility in knowing I am not the only one on the field and that there are others who are running ahead and behind me. It is my responsibility to clear the way for them to find their way back home. _________________ Freddy S. Zalta lives in Brooklyn, living the impossible dreams