A selectively curated past

Some say we view the past selectively, and I tend to believe they’re right. Most every memory from “back then” that bubbles to the front of our minds casts incidents and circumstances in a favorable light while the challenges of the day fade into the background.

I have warm memories of playing baseball in a city league when I was in 6^th grade. Balmy breezes carried a heady aromatic mix of freshly mown grass, roasting peanuts, and sizzling hamburgers from the concession stand throughout the ball park adjacent to Doug Tew Recreation Center. I loved baseball. I loved going to the ballpark. I was proud to wear my green-and-gray flannel WOOF Radio-sponsored baseball uniform and carry my Rawlings glove.

The actual experience was far from idyllic. I almost never got to play. I was a fixture on the bench, like the sack of bats or canvas bag of baseballs, all of which spent more time on the diamond than I did.

My parents insisted I attend every practice and every game, telling me it would build character. I rebelled but went anyway, although I don’t recall either parent attending even one game. I can only surmise that they were avoiding the embarrassment of my sports ineptitude.

I had enthusiasm, at least in the beginning, but I lacked even a modicum of skill. I could throw the ball with the same velocity as most of the other kids, but there was no telling where it might wind up. In the scant few times I had the opportunity to bat, I would have a visceral reaction to the sizzle of a ball speeding toward me and I’d recoil, more often than not jumping out of the batters’ box entirely. Each of my three turns at bat that season resulted in a strike-out.

But I don’t dwell on that. It was my golden season. I wore a uniform that never got dirty and carried a glove that never got broken in. My stats did not exist. I spent so much time warming the bench that I knew the best vantage point in every dugout in the park. “Building character” apparently means acclimating oneself to frustration and disappointment.

Some might consider this a traumatic childhood experience, but it was just another indignity. I’d been in this rodeo before a year or two earlier, when I joined a city league basketball team. As poor as my baseball skill was, my basketball prowess was worse.

What I’ve realized as an adult is that even though I’ve never considered these disappointments as milestones or catalysts, that’s exactly what they are. I grew into a man with a laissez-faire view, and consider myself an optimist.

Elias, one of my brothers-in-law, even coined a name for my unconscious approach to the circumstances of daily life: The Billicle.

He’d noticed that when I decided a situation or strategy would not improve and was ready to move on, I’d mutter a common profane expression to announce the imminent pivot: “F#%& it.”

I wasn’t aware I’d been speaking out loud, and I find E’s acknowledgement hilarious.

I often wonder what sort of worldview I’d have today if my mind worked differently. It’s clearly discerning in what it retains.

Often, when I am with family and longtime friends, someone will refer to an event or conversation they swear took place in my presence, and I will have no memory of it.

“I must have been in the bathroom,” I’ll say.

This is not new, and doesn’t particularly concern me.

I know a guy who went to Auburn University at the same time I did, and when I run into him, talk often turns to our days on the Plains. More than 40 years have passed, and I have vague recollections of the time. However, he remembers his time in Auburn with exacting detail, including minutiae about any given football game while he was there.

For me, that would be untenable. I’m not sure I could deal with the present if my mind was cluttered with that much past.

What would be worse is hyperthymesia or near-perfect recall. There are only a handful of cases recorded. Among them is Marilu Henner, most notable for her role in the old television series “Taxi.” She is said to be able to remember everything that has transpired in her life.

I had been a fan of hers since her days on “Taxi,” so I was excited to meet her one day years ago. I had a copy of a book she’d written and hoped she’d sign it. She did, but was rude and dismissive. She didn’t speak or even acknowledge my presence.

Clearly her mind was elsewhere and my interaction was an annoyance.

She walked on leaving me stunned and disappointed.

I stood there watching her walk away for a moment. Then I employed The Billicle and tossed the freshly autographed book into the closest trash can.

Some things are best forgotten.