Running in DC

Running in DC is no small feat.
Be ready to hit the ground running because the traffic, the city, the history will not stop for you.
It is a sprinter’s city.
It is a point-to-point sprint.
It is a baseball player’s city.
It is hours of quiet melody punctuated after a crescendo of anticipation with thousands rising to be counted, rising to be heard, rising to be part of our city, our game, our history.
Stop and wait.
A crack of the bat. All rise. And you streak for first. If you choose to round one, make sure to keep your head up for the play and the throw at two. The ball might play through.
Or you might get hit by a bus.
Find the next base to steal and sprint head down for it.
You might run for hours and cover very little ground.
You will spot statues wielding shield and sword, columns upon fortresses guarding our message, our history, our nation.
The city will not wait for you.
But it will be here at the end of your day, when you collapse stricken upon the grass, and grouse with your friends about this rule, that call, or these thick woolen uniforms.
Move quickly enough, keep up, and your name might find its way onto a discreet white stone with the words IN MEMORIAM.
Move slowly, and you will serve the city’s need, our nation’s need.
For grist.
For logs.
For the steady and slow building of pressure.
And like baseball, the city and its federal magma will move at a glacial pace.
Until an event.
Until something shakes loose the logjam.
Until the ducks on the pond come home, and cities fall.
Then the bases will clear.
Policy will move.
And the official scorekeeper will pen with measured surety a new score, a new deal, an old rule confirmed in new language, always transforming with metronomic precision.

And history and the city will continue its baseball pace.

(c) 2013 Dave Cain