Play Ball!

I was in the park yesterday playing ball with my kids. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining on my face and a cool, crisp breeze was giving my mind a much-needed sense of clarity. I stared down at the baseball in my hand. My first two fingers covered both rows of red laces and I wondered if I could still throw a curveball. I tossed the ball towards my son, but he barely got the wooden bat off his shoulders before the ball bounced off the tree behind him. As he swung the bat, his whole body followed along and he made a complete revolution. “Good swing, William. Just keep your eyes on the ball.” He slung the bat back up on his shoulders and almost tipped backwards. “This bat is kind of heavy, Daddy. Is this the one you used when you played?” I pondered the question for a few moments and, like many times before, was instantly transported back to 1976.

1976 was a life-changing year for me. Not only did I get puked on during my school play (see “Places!”) but I also began playing Little League Baseball. I’m not sure whose idea it originally was, but my Dad was clearly more excited about it than I was. I enjoyed watching the Yankees play on television with him, but putting myself out on the field just didn’t seem like a natural progression. “What do you have to be nervous about?” my Dad would ask. A few of the words that popped into my mind included, PAIN, FAILURE, HUMILIATION, REJECTION, but my mouth would always sum them up by saying, “I don’t know.”

Before opening day, my Dad and I went out shopping for supplies. There were only a couple of left-handed gloves to pick from, so that was pretty easy, but getting my hand into it took a little twisting and shoving. “I know how we can break this in”, my Dad reassured me. When we got home, he took me to the garage and found a can of 3-in-1 oil next to the lighter fluid. With a rag, he lubed up the glove pretty good, placed a baseball inside and bundled the gooey pile of leather with twine. I was perplexed by this whole turn of events, but was also energized by my Dad’s excitement. He then took the glove and placed in down in the middle of the street. “Now stand back, Billy.” Just when I thought I could anticipate all of my Dad’s next moves, he surprised me by revving up the engine of our sky-blue, 1966 Dodge Dart and running it back and forth over the glove as it bounced back and forth on the pavement trying to escape.

The first game took place on a cold weeknight in March. I looked sharp in my new uniform and blue hat. My Dad and I hurried over to the field in the Dodge, which was missing the door handles on the passenger side as a result of an unfortunate encounter with a garbage truck. It was also completely deficient in seat belts, so I slid freely from left to right on the vinyl front seat bench as the car rounded each corner. When we got to the field, my Dad gave me a box of orange tic-tacs to hold in case I needed a snack during the game. For that entire season, I was known as the player who made a strange clicking sound when he ran, as if I was packing a secret set of maracas under my uniform.

My coach put me out in right field for that first game, and it didn’t take me long to realize that nobody had the skills yet to hit the ball out that far. Boredom began to set in, but as the game proceeded, I learned various ways of amusing myself. I looked around and noticed that my glove was the only one with tire treads on the back. I took it off and placed it on my head. It was still pretty greasy, and smelled like the inside of a gas station, but it certainly was velvety soft. It fit on my head quite nicely and my right hand welcomed the ventilation. I reached down to pick a bouquet of dandelions and danced around right field like a principal dancer at The Met. Suddenly, my fantasy was put on hold when I heard the nauseating crack of the bat. One of the opposing players, whose parents had obviously slipped some steroids into his applesauce, had swung for the stars and the ball was headed right towards me. Actually, it was headed right over me. I dropped my bouquet and peddled backwards, my eyes as wide as saucers. I looked all around for my glove before realizing that it was still on my head. I grabbed it and tossed it in the air like I had just graduated from the College of Baseball Incompetence. Through some miracle, it made contact with the ball and deflected it onto a completely different trajectory. Long after the player made it around the bases, I was still rummaging through the dandelions looking for that stupid ball.

The next inning, it was my turn at the plate. We were hitting balls off a stationary tee instead of having it pitched to us. I stepped up to the plate and spit into my palms because I had seen players on television doing that. It didn’t work out so well for me, but I quickly cleaned myself off and took a couple of practice swings. I swung as hard as I could, but instead of hitting the ball, I hit the tee, launching it like Sputnik over the infield. I looked down and saw the ball lying at my feet. The shortstop, confused about what to do next, ran towards me and tagged me with the large, rubber tee as I stared at him and remained perfectly still. Back in right field, I was re-evaluating my career path. Suddenly, my nerves and the cold air got the best of me and my bladder muscles began to twitch. This quickly turned into intense pressure, and I crossed my legs for as long as I could before taking definitive action.

I ran off the field to where my Dad was sitting in the stands and explained my dilemma. We rushed across the parking lot to the back of a Chinese Restaurant, and I was running so fast that my tic-tacs were no longer in rhythm with my footsteps. The heat of the kitchen and the smell of wonton soup were welcomed by all of my senses as I relieved myself in the small, bathroom off the kitchen. As I emerged, my hands were still painful and throbbing as the re-warming process continued. “Ready to go back?” my Dad inquired, but the look on my face was all that he needed to see. We walked back to the Dodge and drove home in silence.

I was determined to make it to the next game, and the next and the next. And for that matter, my Dad made it to all of them as well. I had many good times over the years, but I got nervous before and during each game, and my Dad was well aware of that. Sometimes I wondered whether I kept playing to prove something to myself or to him, but in the end it did not matter. I played until I reached High School and in the last inning of the last game I ever played, I was in left field. I chased down a high fly ball and caught it perfectly as it made a dull snap in my glove. It’s similar to the sound a book makes when you close it fast, which made sense because I knew that I had finished that chapter in my life and a weight had finally been lifted.

“Come on, Daddy, pitch the ball!” I realized that I had taken too much time thinking about the past. I threw the ball and William had timed it perfectly. “I think it’s a double, William!” “Maybe a triple”, he added. After I had retrieved the ball, I paused before pitching it again. “So William, do you want to join Little League?” He thought for a moment as the bat wobbled back and forth. “Nah”, he concluded. I looked at him and smiled. “OK, here it comes ...”