Baseball's in the air
(... and I'm on the bench)
I could see the ball, I could hit the ball. It was a twilight
double-header, and I was in the zone. The moon was a balloon,
and the baseball some guy called Wilson. I couldn't miss.
In my first at-bat, I launched a stinging line drive to left
field. Unfortunately, the shot went straight into the left fielder's
mitt. Every other ball that night found the gaps. Two games,
three pitchers and four hits -- three singles and a double. Four-for-five.
This feat did not go unnoticed by my coach, a 60-year-old,
crusty ex-Army-lifer named Bob, who also happened to be one of
the best hitters I've ever seen.
"Jasper that was an amazing hitting display you put on
tonight. Next game, I'm moving you up in the batting order."
I had arrived.
Four years ago, I discovered Little League for old guys, the
over-40 Men's Baseball League. And like Little League, we played
seven innings of real hardball baseball -- hitting, fielding,
sliding, spitting, base stealing, signal calling and blood. Baseball.
At first, it wasn't easy to get back into the rhythm of the
game. My eyes weren't as sharp as they used to be, I couldn't
run as fast, and playing baseball after a 20-year layoff seemed
surreal. Especially when Bob decided to put me in as catcher.
Dressed like a lobster, I'd squat behind the plate, squint my
eyes, and hope the 80-mile-an hour fastball from Bobby, our ace,
would somehow land in my mitt. It was like taking acid and hanging
out with your mom. Every second a new reality.
If that wasn't enough, we usually played ball on weekend afternoons,
when you'd cook in the Texan heat and humidity. By the end of
the game, I not only was dressed like a lobster, I looked like
one.
"Are you okay?" an umpire asked me in the fifth
inning of a game when he noticed I had turned fire engine red.
"I could use a cigarette and a beer," I said.
Still, that one night in May, 1993, I could do know wrong.
I could see the ball, I could hit the ball. At age 43, it was
the best performance at the plate I'd ever had in my life.
Unfortunately, the next game would be my worst.
We were up against last year's champs, and they were going
with their best pitcher, a lefty with a hopping fast ball. I
was batting fifth in the lineup, so I'd get four chances at this
guy. Good thing, because the first at-bat didn't go too well.
Whiff, whiff, whiff. I went down swinging, though.
"You'll figure him out next time," Bob said. I had
no doubt I would, since two days earlier I went four-for-five,
three singles and a double (did I mention this?).
My second at-bat went much better. Whiff, whiff, ball, ball,
whiff. My second strike out, but at least I worked him to a 2-2
count. I took encouragement in that, and I had no doubt I would
finally connect next time.
True to my gut feeling, I did connect in my third at-bat.
A long drive to left field that cleared the fence. Too bad it
was foul. That was soon followed by whiff, whiff.
Three strikeouts in a row.
"I suck at this," I thought. "I can't see,
I can't hit. Why is he leaving me in?"
In the final inning, I stood at the on-deck circle, mentally
encouraging my teammate at bat. "Come on, Jerry. There's
two out and we're behind by five runs. Ground out to short. Hit
a pop fly to second. Don't let me down."
The asshole hit a bloop single to right. Wonderful.
Before stepping into the batter's box, I looked up at the
sun. I could not find it. Then I took a long look at coach Bob,
who was flashing phony signals at me. I could not believe he
wasn't going to put in a pinch hitter for me. Or give me the
bunt sign. Or give me the lean-into-the-pitch-and-take-one-for-the-team
sign.
On the first pitch, I swung and missed. Strike one. I stepped
out of the batter's box and looked at Bob.
"Swing for the fences, Jasper," he yelled. "What
do you have to lose?" Hmmm. Nothing, I guess. Aside from
my dignity and whatever self-confidence yet remained.
The next pitch looked outside, so I took it. It curved over
the plate at the last second for a strike. Curve balls? He strikes
me out three times with fast balls, and now he's getting fancy?
That's it. I'm swinging at this next pitch, no matter what.
And so I did. I might have hit it this time, too, had the
pitch only been six inches over my head instead of two feet.
Four strike-outs in a row.
"Well, Jasper that was another amazing performance. Not
everybody gets the opportunity to strike out four times in one
game," Bob said.
"So, I guess I'll be batting lower in the order next
game, huh?"
"Yeah," he said. "I think you're one of those
guys who does better when no one's expecting much out of you."
Tell me about it.
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