Sphinx in the Infield

Every Sunday afternoon, I find myself at the park watching the little league games, the crack of the bat taking me back to 1957. That was the year my father taught me the art of patience—both in baseball and in life. 'Watch the sphinx,' he'd say, pointing to the old stone cat we'd built together in the garden, 'she's been waiting thousands of years. Good things come to those who wait.'

Dad was a man of mysteries. When I was ten, I discovered his collection of foreign coins and tiny notebooks in the basement. 'Just a businessman's records,' he claimed, but even then I suspected he'd been something more—a spy perhaps, though he never admitted it. 'Some truths,' he told me with that gentle smile, 'are like pyramids. The real treasure lies buried deep inside.'

Yesterday, my granddaughter Emma called to say she'd taken up padel, some newfangled racket sport. 'Grandpa,' she laughed, 'I'm terrible, but I keep thinking of what you said about Dad—that failing's just practice for succeeding.' I'd never told her about the summer Dad tried to teach me to bat, and I kept missing until he said, 'Even sphinxes started as just stones.'

Now at seventy-three, standing at his grave, I finally understand what he meant. Life's not about the games we win or the secrets we keep. It's about building something that outlasts us—like that garden sphinx still guarding our family home, or the pyramid of memories I've carefully constructed, each tier holding a lesson learned.

The baseball I caught with him on my twelfth birthday sits on my mantelpiece, weathered and golden. Not because it was a perfect catch, but because it was ours. And isn't that what matters? We leave behind fragments of ourselves, hoping someone will gather them up and whisper, 'I remember.'