Santa Barbara is in full springtime.
The air along my suburban driveway is sweet and heavy with the scent of orange blossoms. The winds coming down the mountain slopes are not the dry furnace blasts of late August and September. The air is the perfect temperature and carries a hint of the lingering moisture of the last rains of winter. The mustard is 4 feet tall, shocking yellow and bright green in the old horse pastures. In a few days, the California golden poppies will shout their arrival with petals wide as they dance in lazy circles.
The manicured grass is bright green. The pure white lines are perfectly chalked. The infield is reddish brown and immaculately raked. The sky is powder blue.
It's a beautiful day for baseball.
Lanky boys in uniforms that quote another century - long red stockings and lettered jerseys - leap and run, catch and throw. Cleats scratch dirt and a small white ball makes a satisfying slap as it punches into leather gloves.
Today I watched the Junior Varsity and my 15 year old son learn to play the game. These aren't the boys who hide in dark rooms after school playing killing games on electronic monitoring devices.
They are boys running free in the sun. They are learning the game of their fathers and their grandfathers. The double play, the line drive and the slide - SAFE at home are built into physical vocabulary and burned into muscle memory.
The naval oranges on the tree in our garden are heavy and ripe. I picked and washed a dozen. I carefully sliced them in 8 sections and poured them into a plastic shopping bag.
My 8 year old boy Toby and I drove around the corner to the ball field where the boys were practicing. I walked to the dugout and offered the bag of cool, juicy slices to the ball players. Hands reached for the dripping fruit and exquisite sounds followed as the ever hungry teenagers gathered the wet taste of a ripe orange into their mouths.
Their coach, a young man, newly arrived in Santa Barbara from Boston stood with the boys and joined the feast. He thanked me. I said, "I just picked them". He looked surprised. He bit into another slice and said, "This is heaven".
After the oranges, the boys went back out into the field. Toby picked up his mitt and tried to be invisible as he found a place at shortstop. His brother stood on the right field side of second base and the other high school boys took their positions. The coach hit grounders to each player. Toby fielded and threw the ball back in; an 8 year old boy taking practice with a real baseball team.
The world is confused and angry and bitter and crazed. Our children are sometimes held hostage because of fearful things that have happened. It will still be that way tomorrow. But today?
Today - was a great day for baseball.
The Production Room was founded in 1995 as one of the first full time digital commercial recording facilties on the central coast of California. We started with 4 stereo tracks, 16 mb of ram and a 250 mb hard drive. A lot has happened since then. Today we're focusing on ways to serve clients who are creating web based media content. This includes strategic planning to integrate the benefits of traditional media, web design and IT solutions into new programs produced especially for on-line consumers. Join in the conversation. Throw rocks at glass houses. Share your vision of the future. This is the most progressive time in the media arts since Johannes Gutenburg invented movable type!