Baseball

Baseball - A short story by P. Andrew Power

He hadn’t been taught that he needn’t slide into first base.  He was safe regardless.  Around me on the bleachers was clapping.  It was half-hearted, lugubrious applause as opposed to uproarious celebration.  An eight year-old being safe at first, moreover incorrectly, didn’t rank much more.  “Good job David,” decreed someone most likely with a close familial relationship to David.  David’s job had been reasonable, accidentally making contact through a terrible check-swing that dribbled the ball up the third baseline.  Once the third baseman and the short-stop had concluded their tussle over the ball, rolling around and forgetting at least momentarily that they were supposed to work together, David was already standing on the first base bag, dusting his canvas pants unnecessarily sullied by his foot-first slide.  He beamed proudly.  I wiped my forehead.  It was hot in the sunshine.

The pitcher was a tall kid with red hair and freckles.  The kind of kid a perfectly reasonable adult would be comfortable cheering against because an adult would know that a kid like this spent his spare time pushing other kids from their bicycles or some such.  He was heavier than the other boys too, an advantage he would certainly use on the playground, throwing elbows during a game of red-rover.  I formed an immediate dislike of the pitcher.  The ball made its way back to him, from the third baseman who’d won it.  The pitcher waited as the umpire tied a sneaker for the next batter, a skinny kid with glasses who apparently didn’t know how to tie shoes at the age of eight.  David shifted back and forth, from one foot to the other atop the bag, bored with the waiting.

The umpire finished his assistance and circled around to retake his position leaning over the catcher like a fat man pilfering french-fries from an unsuspecting toddler at the supper table.  “Play ball!” he said, as if there was another option.  The pitcher crinkled his nose and squinted his eyes in determination serving mostly to concentrate his freckles into menacing, orange cheek blotches.  He rolled the ball over a few times in his glove then reared back and chucked it forcefully into the top of the back-stop.  “Ball,” demurred the umpire.  I stretched my eyelids by opening my eyes widely and then returned them to their relaxed, yet open, position.  The catcher walked after the ball like he would a kitten that’s left its box.

Once retrieved, the ball was thrown back toward the pitcher landing bouncelessly four feet in front of him.  He sauntered to it, noticing without concern that David was considering stealing second.  The red-head squinted at him in a manner that made it known he’d better not.  David was doing his best to entice a throw to first, which most likely wouldn’t be caught and then stealing second would be an actual possibility.  David danced back and forth along the baseline nearest first but on its way to second, waving his hands randomly.  The pitcher shook his head slowly in a dismissive manner and took up his position with his right foot in the hole against the rubber.  I cannot explain why David did not steal second when the ball was crashing into the top third of the backstop, other than to theorize that he enjoyed tormenting the pitcher more than he did baseline advancement.  I resolved to cheer silently for David.  He wasn’t my grandson.  My grandson was the only boy in the game who would cause me to clap or call encouragement.  I was here for him.  The rest were scenery; extras.

I sipped four-dollar lemonade from a plastic bottle.  I wanted it to last all four innings.

Three more uncoordinated swings and the bespectacled batter was retired to his bench and bulk bag of sunflower seeds.  I watched as he took a generous swig from his water bottle, clearly parched from his three swings and his statuesque observance of the first pitch into the backstop.  David walked back and forth along his end of the first-to-second baseline.  “Over here!” the first basemen called holding his glove well forward.  The red-head ignored him and looked in at the next batter menacing his cheek blotches as he did. 

The next batter was a girl with a bright yellow ponytail hanging from the back of her oversized, shockingly fuchsia batting helmet.  She smiled happily to the pitcher; almost knowingly.  It was possible they went to school together, or lived on the same street, or were cousins.  It was clear that the red-head didn’t intend to return the happy-to-see-you sentiment.  He redoubled his squint.  David walked back to first base.  He was not permitted to take a lead.  Eight year olds do not take leads in this league.  The yellow haired girl kept smiling.

“Strike,” called the umpire as her first pitch breezed across the plate.  She didn’t move, the bat resting casually upon her shoulder, her smile unaffected.  The yellow haired girl was important to me.  If she were to strike out, it was less likely that my grandson would make it up to bat this inning.  He was currently on the bench with the bespectacled kid, sharing sunflower seeds and testing batting helmets by smacking each other’s with open palms.   The helmets were clearly effective as Peter giggled as the kid with the bulk bag of seeds smacked him.

The yellow-haired girl had amassed another strike and a ball.  With two strikes against, she was smiling less.  “Let’s go Shelly,” came a call from the bleachers.  I agreed, indeed, let’s go Shelly.  There were three more batters between Shelly and Peter.  The red-head stared in and reared back and plunked Shelly in the shoulder. I would have thought he did it on purpose but he wasn’t good enough to hit what he wanted, including the strike zone or a yellow-haired girl.  “Time,” called the umpire.  The game stopped for a bit as the coach made his way to the batter’s box to ask Shelly if she was okay.  Shelly was fighting back the tears that hadn’t already slipped down her cheeks waiting to be smeared by her baseball t-shirt sleeve.  She nodded, handed her bat to her coach, and walked joylessly to first base.  David was pushed to second base without drama or excitement.  He was now eying third base as a thievery prospect.

With the yellow-haired Shelly sobbing on first base, and only one out, there was an improved chance that Peter would get to bat.  The first base coach was talking to the yellow-haired girl, telling her that it was a good thing she was on first because the team needed base runners.  I agreed.  Shelly looked like she would prefer to eat sunflower seeds and not have a bruise tomorrow.  “That-a-girl Shelly,” the woman who I presumed to be her mother said.  I shifted.  The aluminum bleacher was hurting my keister.  When I did, the hot bleacher burnt the palms of my hands.  I clutched the four dollar lemonade to cool them.  I took another sip.  It was still the top of the first.

David bounced around between second and third, enticing an errant throw.  “David, back on second.  You can’t take a lead,” his coach said loudly from the bench.  The coach then smiled and said something to the third base coach and the smile was shared.  The dancing irritated the red headed pitcher.  When he turned with the ball in his glove he could see peripherally the spasmodic movements of David mocking him and daring him to throw the ball in his direction.  It was thus far my one source of entertainment, interrupted temporarily by the coach sending him back to second.

Three more batters until Peter.  One out, two on.  David and the sobbing, yellow-haired girl.  The pitcher looked in and the batter chewed gum in reply.  Squint.  Throw.  Crack.  The ball rolled into right field, with David being waved home and the yellow-haired girl running past second and on toward third with her arms flailing wildly as if bees were nesting in her fuchsia headdress.  Two more batters.  The pitcher stamped his foot and held his glove behind his neck with both hands.  His dismay brought a small flicker of joy to me.  I disliked his arrogance and his demeanour.  I knew how kids like him grew up to become border guards or cops or high school principals just so they could keep sticking their thumbs into the ribs of those who couldn’t fight back because of the system we’re stuck in.

Peter was in the hole.  Runners at first and third.  The yellow-haired girl was on third, and number 10 who’d had the nice RBI single was on first mostly because his first base coach made him keep it to a single.  A new batter was up, number 5.  He batted left, so his back was mostly to me.  David was standing in front of his bench, still dancing.  I celebrated his run with another sip of lemonade.  The sun was beginning to work at the exposed skin on my forearms.  I should have worn sunblock.

The kid on deck was swinging a wooden bat, because it was heavier than the aluminum one he’d be batting with.  The old bat was a suitable warm-up for a batter intending to use a new one.  In my time we’d put a lead donut around the bat and swing that to warm up our shoulders and hips.  I supposed they didn’t think children using lead was a good idea and they were probably right.  It wasn’t difficult to imagine David gnawing on the warm-up donut.  Especially if someone called it a donut.

Number 5 struck out.  Two outs.  Runners at first and third.  Peter on deck standing in the on-deck circle swinging the heavier wooden bat and watching his teammate facing the red headed pitcher.  The menacing look, the blotched freckles, a high inside pitch.  “Ball,” said the umpire.  There were few redeeming features to this red head kid.  High and inside again.  “Ball.”  Peter watched on, swinging, waiting, swinging.  “Ball three,” the umpire said.  The pitcher took a little walk around the mound to calm himself down.  He looked in, threw low and away, and walked Number 5 in four pitches. 

The bases were loaded and Peter was up.  I was terribly hot, but I’d stopped sweating.  I sipped a sip of lemonade and smiled at Peter, who waggled his fingers at me.  I nodded to him to impart my entire baseball prowess onto him with a single gesture, which of course isn’t possible.   He walked to the batter’s box and wiggled his feet into the sandy dirt like I’d shown him.  He bent his knees and pulled the bat back and waited.  The red-head threw, and Peter swung at the first pitch.  I’d taught him to swing at the first pitch.  It’s the one the pitcher would be most focussed on and therefore it would be most likely to cross the plate in a somewhat hittable manner.

He hit a solid grounder into centre field, the ball rolling to the left of the centre fielder who was out of position.  Peter ran to first and was on his way to second.  He’d knocked in two runs.  I stood on my bleacher and clapped, feeling some of the blood making its way back into my legs.  The centre fielder threw the ball in to second, where the pitcher caught it by stepping in front of his own second baseman.  He tagged Peter far too high.  “Hey!” I hollered.  “Out,” the umpire said.  Peter fell backward having been hit in the face by a larger boy.  One with red hair and freckles and belly fat.  I was angry.  I took up my lemonade and ambled down the bleachers intending to make my way to the bench to see if Peter was okay.  His head was hanging so I couldn’t tell if he was hurt or simply dismayed.  I scowled at the red head and the umpire and the world in general.

My chest tightened when I reached the ground.  I was finding it more difficult to breathe.  At once I knew I was in distress.  It had to be my heart.  I preferred it to be heat-stroke, so I took another sip of my lemonade.  It still had to last three and a half more innings.  I fell to the ground onto my backside, clutched my chest and sat there watching Peter walk to where David was waiting with a high-five.  I groaned.  The people on the bleachers were starting to notice my dying of something more than heat-stroke.  I couldn’t raise my lemonade to my mouth to convince them.  I needed to lie down.  “I’ll be okay,” I said to the random parenting faces around me.  “He’s having a heart attack,” one of them labeled it.

The pitcher started to yell.  He was having a conniption.  At first I thought he was angry with having given up the runs with two outs.  Then I determined he was angry that I’d disrupted his game with my death theatrics.  He yelled, “I know where it is!” and he ran off toward the school discarding his glove and his hat flew up driven off by the wind of running on its brim.  I fell back and the parenting faces were replaced by darkness and then light and then a backlit figured obscured. 

My dead wife looked at me first with compassion but then her face changed.  She squinted and pursed her lips and shook her head “no”.  Then she had freckles, which she never had in life.  They blended together into orange blotches that confirmed her disagreement with whatever I’d done to upset her.  I went through the list.  I took out the garbage.  I gave up smoking.  I stopped going to the bar after work – mostly because I’d stopped working twenty years ago.  Then she was gone and the white light was replaced by the cyan sky.  The coach of the other team was kneeling next to me, fiddling with a yellow box.

“Did it work?” the pitcher asked?

I looked around at the group of parents and mingled baseball teams, all faces staring at me.  “Grandpa!” Peter shouted.