The Belle of the Ball, by Juno

Another in our “The shorter the word, the bigger the meaning” series

Now four years old, dog-blogger Juno is a Labradoodle living in Summerland in the interior of British Columbia.

Real estate agents bring cards; musicians bring EPs; academics bring recently published books. We all need something, a token, a symbol, with which to introduce ourselves to others. Entering the dog park for the daily morning or afternoon play, I bring a ball—my ball, a bright, bouncy, spherical orange toy.

I feel naked without my ball, like a stick bouncing down a stream, life a leaf in an autumn freefall. My ball is my comfort and my strength, all the better for chewing, and for chasing—my ball is my exercise, my pride, and my joy, as I chase it t’wards all corners of the ball park.

To chase, and to chew,
To have, and to hold;
My ball is my partner,
In youth and when old.

If my focused enthusiasm seems a bit much—I mean how much should anyone get excited about a ball—well, ask a golfer. Better still, ask a baseball player, a batter, or a pitcher—if it’s not about the ball itself, it’s all about how you manage the carefully designed and assembled Major League Baseball.

It’s the way these balls are thrown that creates the drama: if a fast ball, there’s a Four-seam, a Two-Seam, a Cutter, or a Splitter. Other pitches include Curveballs, Sliders, Slurve (is that a word?), and Screwballs (I know a few of these). Then there’s the Changeups—at this point, I typically hunt for a treat—it’s all a bit too complicated for my canine command centre. The World Series starts next week, however, so some technical review is likely in order.

Then there’s how the batter hits the ball: bat under and you’ve got yourself a fly ball which is likely playable by an agile fielder—not good, you’re out. Better to hit a ground ball and bounce your way towards a single base hit. If you hope for a homer, make sure you hit square on, or your dreams will foul away.

Baseball loves statistics so here’s a comment from an MLB equipment manager: an average of eight to ten dozen baseballs are used each game. Hardly a sustainable practice don’t you think? Even this number seems low as players throw endless numbers of balls into the stands. (Why more fans aren’t injured seems odd to me.) Pitchers sometimes refuse to throw particular balls; it all seems rather wasteful. Apparently, concerning the game itself, it’s all about the ball: who throws it; who bats it; who catches it; and who takes it home, one way or another.

But let’s return to the dog park, where the same questions apply, about balls, and to my ball in particular: who throws it; who bats it; who catches it; and who takes it home, one way or another. You might think that I want to share my ball, but no; the words of Scottish author, poet and Christian Congregational minister George MacDonald (10 December 1824 – 18 September 1905) should be tattooed on my right ear: “What’s Mine’s Mine.” End of story.

Day in and day out, I chase running balls and bouncing balls. In the summer I bury balls at the dog beach—I once buried my ball in the household laundry basket as I couldn’t get out in the back yard to hide it in the sandbox. Balls belong either underground or in my mouth—as Richard Nixon said: “Read my lips!” My ball has my smell attached. All balls are not my ball; they may look alike, but there is only one ball for Juno.

For me, balls are not simply a toy; my ball is a lifestyle icon. If the “Belle of the Ball” is the most popular woman at a dance, I am in fact the Belle of my Ball. So:

The Belle of the Ball
for me is not all
about status, or beauty, or fame:
The Belle of my Ball
is the one who must call
to the players of life’s endless game.