Baseball's in the air

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.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2001 by Mike Jasper.