I spent a game in the dugout when the strike zone seemed
small, spitting sunflower seed shells at my sneakers, trying to convince myself
that, despite the agony, there’s no place I’d rather be than in a baseball
dugout watching a ballgame on a beautiful evening, stars twinkling somewhere
out there beyond the bugs and bats darting in and out of the field lights. It was warm, and the grass was smooth and
green.
“Ball four!”
I stepped over to the water fountain. I popped a few more seeds.
“Ball one.”
After the game there would be food for the players and coaches, so that was a happy thought. Parents have stepped up and volunteered to prepare post-game meals once a week, and I momentarily thought about biting into a warm a sloppy joe and sipping a cold Coke.
“Take your base.”
I drifted back to Poland when Jordan hit the late, two-run homer to beat Uganda, and my mind’s eye once again watched the ball disappear into the tall trees beyond the centerfield fence.
I thought about the Mets game when my dad bought me my first real hat.
I remembered the first time I signed my kids up for baseball in the mail center. A guy with a sort of surfer dude inflection and wire-rimmed glasses enthusiastically engaged me in conversation when I told him that I had two boys to sign up. I think it was Kinney.
“Ball one!”
Ugh. In a desperate attempt to get the elusive third out, I gave the sign for a pick-off play at first base. Wild pitch. The runners moved up; the pick-off option was dead.
“Ball two!”
Changing gears, I popped some pumpkins seeds. Stale.
“Ball three!”
I organized the bats from longest to shortest in the bat rack. I neatened the helmets on the shelf. A dog barked in the distance.
“Ball four!”
I bit a nail, I stood up, and then I started killing the ants that had been swarming around someone’s spilled Gatorade.
I spent a game in the dugout when the strike zone seemed small. Not easy at all.
“Ball four!”
I stepped over to the water fountain. I popped a few more seeds.
“Ball one.”
After the game there would be food for the players and coaches, so that was a happy thought. Parents have stepped up and volunteered to prepare post-game meals once a week, and I momentarily thought about biting into a warm a sloppy joe and sipping a cold Coke.
 |
| A post-game meal |
“Take your base.”
I drifted back to Poland when Jordan hit the late, two-run homer to beat Uganda, and my mind’s eye once again watched the ball disappear into the tall trees beyond the centerfield fence.
I thought about the Mets game when my dad bought me my first real hat.
I remembered the first time I signed my kids up for baseball in the mail center. A guy with a sort of surfer dude inflection and wire-rimmed glasses enthusiastically engaged me in conversation when I told him that I had two boys to sign up. I think it was Kinney.
“Ball one!”
Ugh. In a desperate attempt to get the elusive third out, I gave the sign for a pick-off play at first base. Wild pitch. The runners moved up; the pick-off option was dead.
 |
| Nick and Chris meet to discuss the pitching plan. |
“Ball two!”
Changing gears, I popped some pumpkins seeds. Stale.
“Ball three!”
I organized the bats from longest to shortest in the bat rack. I neatened the helmets on the shelf. A dog barked in the distance.
“Ball four!”
I bit a nail, I stood up, and then I started killing the ants that had been swarming around someone’s spilled Gatorade.
I spent a game in the dugout when the strike zone seemed small. Not easy at all.
