Well Hit ball

Well Hit Ball

I think most of you gentlemen can remember playing catch with something that’s falling. Many ladies will too, it’s just a measure of character after all. Do you try to catch something that you think is falling or do you back away? It’s as simple as that except it’s either inbred or a learned response. Trying to catch something falling is tough to do regardless, whether it’s the kitchen knife, your buddy or a baseball. I admired the naturals and had to work at catching. I was a natural hurler though. Diaphragm slapping lungs, I sang loudest on long rides with my family, at least at first. With salvia waiting in the wings, “Stop the car or suffer the consequences”, was my quiet solo just before projectile vomiting.

“I’m playing next to you today.” She was all sweet about it.

“So.” I was bitterly disappointed at not pitching and the sweetness didn’t help.

“I just thought you’d like to know.” Linda walked away from me in a huff. She had strong freckles and a weak notion about me. I figured I’d be in right field. I’d played there before and liked it. Coach put us in positions he thought we could handle. He’d made a mistake if he put her in center field. She ran like a girl, and acted like one in front of me sometimes. I was interested in the game. I wanted to win.

“Don’t drop the ball”, Linda lunged over to me from second base.

She said it like Mom would, only louder. The fans watching the infield recognized snappy patter. I didn’t look at her, nervous about how close I was to the line of fire. Only the pitcher was closer than I was.

Her yell startled me out of my concentration. I was trying to compose myself by hitting my fist in my glove. I squeezed a fart out. I was so tight at 12 that they sounded like chirps and only smelled from bad cooking. I was, however, mortified to the point of coming out of my short stop crouch. Since everyone had froze at the crack of the bat, it was audible.

The ball was hit by none other than that lefty bastard, Alby Price. I was in love with his older sister and didn’t show it. Every time I pitched to him I hit him. I was a fast ball pitcher with little control. He was steamed that I could hit him so many times in fair play. I wished Russell Porter would join the league. It was payback time for him. His stance, corrected by my blows, made him into a decent clutch hitter. Our pitcher threw a soft pitch right over the heart of the plate. He snapped a fast one off the meat of the bat, I could tell by the sound of it. I lost sight of it in the glare of my fellow infielder’s verbal error. How about, “Hum boy” for infield chatter, I thought. Then she did it again. “Don’t look down” Now I’m stubborn as hell and I barely let the Coach tell me what to do. Coming from a puny second baseman, I looked over and sneered. That did it. The short hop caught me.

I was wearing an athletic supporter that was way too big for me. My sister had put it on the basset hound for fun. “Look at Clyde strutting his stuff.” Shirley was his big promoter. He was well hung and stretched out everything else too. Mom made ME take it off. “It’s your jock strap. Put it in the laundry when you’re done.” I snapped Clyde on the backside a few times getting him untangled. He looked at me as if to say, “You wish you had what I do boy,” I did. Mother appreciated our Lothario house pet, too. She told her friends, “Clyde came home in the Gwynedd police cruiser last Friday.” Mrs. Gerhard was her straight man, “Well, what ever for?” This question always irked me. “He’s in love with the German shepherd over on Evans road.” The truth was old Clyde had thrown his back out trying to mount the bitch and the police were really driving an ambulance. The old faker, he climbed out of the front seat with his water wand still digging furrows in the lawn. Smart looks about him and a swagger, too, I swear. Officer Smart told Mother, “If he does that one more time we are taking him in.” She had heard that about me, too, and didn’t believe Johnny Smart would do that to the dog either. The ladies were impressed, more so when Clyde strolled in and started licking himself. The table was set up for a performance. It had happened before. You couldn’t have blown up the trance of the card players with dynamite. I was jealous but not for what he could do to them.

So I‘m hanging out and sure enough I got whacked. I went down and the left fielder had to run to get the slow moving grounder. I had taken the spin out of the ball the hard way. I blocked the base path, too. Two base runners chose two different routes, north and south. Alby might as well have hit a homer the way they ran around the bases. Both of them looked down at me funny. What wasn’t funny was the way the wind got knocked out of me. When it was apparent that I wasn’t going to get up, after two or three minutes, my Coach came out. This had happened before, lucky me, an unexpected line drive to the pitcher’s mound; I knew the drill. He tried to unbutton my pants but I wouldn’t let him. He settled for lifting me by the belt until my butt was off the ground. That made me chain stoke for air. Linda stood and watched, amazed at my discomfort, smiling with concern. Getting hit in the balls is like childbirth. You just don’t know. “He looks like a fish out of water!” I was pissed by now and my diaphragm got sore, too. Sore from kicking my belly over and over again to catch the ball. Do you think she would get it if I told her to shut up when a ball is hit? Anyone who loved the game gasped at a well hit ball but not Linda. Playing baseball was just a chance to be with everyone, especially her admirers.

Back in the dugout I sat tenderly holding my forehead in my hands. The other boys left me alone in my misery. They knew I loved to face the fire and prepared to take the consequences like now. Linda came over and pushed her chest into the brim of my cap. The aisle in front of the bench in a Little League dugout is narrow. “What happened?” The romantic hints weren’t hidden in her tone. Her braces made a slur of it. She had her cap off again despite the Coach’s rule. I was properly offended. Her long hair made her head sweat. I looked up. Her eyelashes were batting furiously at drops of sweat, not tears. I took aim through the site her bra made of her breasts and let fly, “Zuercher’s Postulate on the Perversity of Inanimate Objects”. Linda sat next to me in biology class. Her interests were all emotional. She had no idea why I wanted to be alone or what I had been through. I always used my interest in technical stuff to shut her up. It had worked before.

“What’s that?” When I stood up she jerked flat against the dugout lip bending way back into sunlight. She put her right arm up in a salute, shielding her eyes. I heard the team laugh. Even the Coach looked and smiled with the common thought, ‘Show the captain of the team a little respect’; they were all looking over now, the batter forgotten. “Bread falls jelly side down.” The squinty look in her eyes will always make me laugh. I tried walking away like my hero, Robin Roberts. He was a great pitcher for the Phillies. I saw him win in Connie Mack Stadium. The lump in my throat came back with the memory of him walking to the mound, ready to face the fire. A chew of tobacco in his cheek, on his bandy legs, he was ready to face a well hit ball if he failed. I cheered at the thought of it like everyone else. He was a master of falling objects. Baseball was my first love. Now Susan Price had stolen my bases, Linda couldn’t play first by me and the ache reminded me I was a man, too. I’m a serious pupil of the game, not a teacher. Learn to keep your eye on the ball from someone else. Be first in the line of fire on every play, if you dare. My teammates silently moved out of the way.