Hits and Misses

by Simon Rich

  “He wants to make a revision,” Ben explained to the hospital staff. “That’s why he’s screaming so loud. He’s worried the manuscript will go out to critics before he’s made the edit.”

  He carefully placed the pen in his son’s hand. The baby gestured frantically at his novel, tears streaming from his frightened eyes.

  “I know,” Ben said soothingly. “I know. It’s hard.” He carefully flipped through the pages, making sure the baby had a chance to scan each one. They were six chapters in when the baby started bawling.

  “Is it this page?” Ben asked gently. “Is it something on this page?”

  The baby sniffled.

  “Okay,” Ben said. “Shhh. Okay.”

  He lowered his son to the manuscript and watched as the infant dragged his pen across the page, trimming the final sentence of a dense, descriptive passage.

  “Good cut,” Ben said, impressed.

  The baby let out a long, contented sigh, then fell asleep in his father’s arms. Ben studied his son’s tiny features. His fuzzy, bulbous cheeks, his softly swelling chest. It was hard to believe this was something he’d helped to create. He turned to his wife and noticed there were tears in her eyes.

  “I love you, baby,” she said.

  “I love you too,” he said. “Now come on. Let’s get this little guy into his nursery.”

  Riding Solo: The Oatsy Story

  Growing up horse, I do not expect much from life. My ten older brothers all end up in stable. My sisters become glue.

  When I am small, my father run off. That is not figure of speech. One day, for real, he just run into woods out of nowhere. Everyone is like: Whoa. That crazy.

  It is not happy barn. But I have one escape: running. When I am doing gallop, I do not think about how little hay we have or where I will next find salt. I think only of wind in my mane as I surge through the air like bird. In that moment, I am happy. I am free.

  Around this time I meet human. His name Paul.

  Paul Revere.

  He was not big star then. He was just regular guy from Boston—laid-back, funny, easy to carry. We become close and tell our secrets. Turns out we both have same dream: to make big mark on world. One night, when moon is up, we make pact: if one of us make it, we both make it. Together, there is no stopping us.

  Then one day we see British coming, and I am like, This is it. This is our chance. We can ride to town and tell people British are coming, and it will be, like, this big thing. Paul is scared, and he is like, Are you sure that is good idea, Oatsy? And I am like, Trust me, I know what I talk about.

  So Paul cannot run fast, because he has fat legs, and also, he is human. So he is like, Hey, can you do running part? And I am like, Of course. I will carry you whole way to town. And when we get there, you can do speaking part, since you are not horse and you know English and can talk. And he is like, Deal.

  So then I carry him through brambles for hours, and he shouts, The British are coming, and next thing we know, everyone is cheering, and I neigh at Paul like, Told you so.

  So army guy says, Okay, now you meet John Hancock and Sam Adams. And I am like, Whoa, this is big-time! But when we are walking to meetinghouse, something strange happens: Paul ties me to post. And I am like, Why not me go inside with you? And he is like, Well, you do not have tie and blazer, and also you are horse. And I am like, Huh. This weird.

  And then person from newspaper jumps out, and he is like, Paul, Paul, how did you ride so long through night? And I snort, because of course Paul did not ride. I rode. He just clung to my back with eyes closed, crying whenever his face got brushed by leaf. So I smile at Paul, expecting him to correct newspaperman, but instead, he is like, “I rode so long because I care revolution.” And I am like, Whoa. Paul change.

  So after that, Paul become this big shot. Poem come out about him, and it is made into famous etching. And meanwhile, I unemployed. And my horse wife is like, How about you get work pulling carriage? And I am like, I saved country from British, I am not pulling around fatsos all day. And she is like, Have you been drinking? And I am like, I might have stopped by brewery and licked puddle, but what is wrong with that? I am full-grown horse. Back off! And she is like, What is wrong with you? And I say, There is nothing wrong with me; there is something wrong with world, because they do not realize it is me who made midnight ride! And she is like, Yeah, with Paul steering you. And that is when it happens. I kick her. And she is like, That’s it, it’s over, kids, let’s go, pack up hay, we’re leaving. And I am like, Wait. I sorry. Can we talk about this? But she is gone. She just run into woods out of nowhere. And I am like: Whoa. That crazy.

  So then everything just fall apart. I go from licking brewery puddles to licking distillery puddles to just licking whatever puddles I can find, like, who cares, get it in me. And I find myself trotting around glue factory, thinking maybe I knock on door and tell them, Go ahead.

  Everyone ask me, Why did Paul treat you so bad? I am not psychologist, but I have theories. For example, not everyone aware, but Paul has small penis. I could feel when he rode me. So maybe that make him crazy?

  There is also romantic angle. Like, again, not everyone aware, but Paul’s first wife, Mary, and I, we sort of had thing. One time, late at night, when no one was around, she was like, I would rather be with you, Oatsy, because I know midnight ride was your idea, and Paul stole credit, and also Paul has tiny penis, especially compared to horse, but I have to stay with Paul because of image. And I was like, Who cares about image? Let’s just love each other and enjoy each other’s bodies. And we did share one special night, but that is all I will say about it, because it is private.

  I know that some people, when they read this book, they will think maybe I made some parts up. For example, some people will be like, How did you say those things to Paul? You are horse, you cannot speak, and you even said that yourself, early on in book, you said you cannot speak, but then there is so much speaking throughout entire book. Is inconsistent. Fine. They do not have to believe me. That is not why I write this; I write it for my thirty-seven horse kids, so they know the truth and not the lies.

  Everyone says, You must be bitter. Paul Revere is big famous icon and your legs are failing and soon you will be glue, probably within a few hours, because you are in cage at the glue factory and they are doing you, like, pretty soon. But anger is like salt lick. Every day it shrink and shrink. And I think that when I die, my last thought will not be Paul’s betrayal; it will be that moonlit night, that ride through the brambles, the feeling of wind in my mane as I surged through the air like bird. For a moment, I was happy. I was free.

  The Foosball Championship of the Whole Entire Universe

  August 21, 1991

  Boca Raton, Florida—Grandma’s Rec Room

  Tensions will be running high today as the Blue Team, coached by eleven-year-old Nathaniel Rich, takes on the Red Team, coached by seven-year-old Simon Rich.

  So far this summer, Nathaniel’s Blue Team has dominated Simon’s Red Team, winning all eighty-three matches. But the coaches have agreed that since today’s showdown is the last game of vacation, it “counts for everything.” The brother who wins today’s contest will be declared the Foosball Champion of the Whole Entire Universe.

  Keys to the Game

  Coaching

  Coach Simon is renowned for his fiery devotion to the game of foosball. But while some see his passion as an asset, others view it as a liability.

  “Coach cries a lot,” observed Red Team halfback Donald Mursgard. “Like, pretty much every time we lose.”

  Coach Simon’s postgame meltdowns have become so violent that League Commissioner Mom has threatened to ban foosball forever. The young coach has promised to “be good,” but as his losing streak continues, his outbursts have only intensified.

  “The last time we lost,” Mursgard recalled, “Coach attacked us. It was scary, because even though he’s just a boy, to us, he’s a giant—about fifty to sixty times our size. He kep
t banging his fists against our tiny heads and screaming that we were ‘stupid, stupid, stupid.’ It wasn’t exactly great for team morale.”

  Right wing Johnny Hult recalled another recent loss. “We were about to win, for the first time all season. But at the last second, the Blue Team’s goalie kicked the ball across the entire length of the field, to win the game 10–9. I figured Coach Simon would start screaming, like how he usually does, but instead he got this far-off look in his eyes, like he had seen a ghost. He walked away from the table, and as he was walking he just sort of collapsed. Like, his legs kind of just went out from under him. Then he let out this kind of animal shriek and started tearing at his hair, like literally ripping out entire tufts. It’s sort of like he went crazy. Meanwhile, Coach Nathaniel [of the Blue Team] was laughing. It was not a good day for the sport.”

  Health of Red Team

  Coach Simon’s decision to physically discipline his players has resulted in several injuries. Center Bert Ragumson is missing both of his legs, halfback Lance Ricardo is playing without a head, and the entire defensive line is fully paralyzed.

  Coach Nathaniel’s players, meanwhile, remain healthy despite a controversial incident earlier this week when Coach Simon savagely attacked them in order to, in his words, “make it fair.”

  “It was the scariest moment of my life,” said Blue Team goalie Mark McMalley. “Coach Simon picked up a remote control, which for us is like the equivalent of a pretty large tree, and he tried to kill me with it. He tried to bash in my skull. Listen. I’m an athlete, not a psychologist. But it doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to see that this kid needs medication.”

  Differing Strategies

  Stylistically, the Red Team and the Blue Team are a study in contrasts. While Coach Nathaniel favors a finesse game, Coach Simon prefers a more physical style of play.

  “He just spins us,” explained halfback Carlos Davila. “As hard as he can. Over and over and over. The idea is, I guess, that if we keep doing backflips, sooner or later, one of us will randomly hit the ball forward, with our feet or the back of our head. I don’t know how many good men have to get paralyzed before Coach admits that this tactic doesn’t work.”

  Accusations of Misconduct

  Coach Simon has repeatedly accused Coach Nathaniel of cheating.

  “He cheats all the time,” he told reporters, between sobs. “That’s how he wins.”

  When asked to explain specifically how the Blue Team was cheating, Coach Simon declined to elaborate. “He just cheats,” Simon said with conviction. “He’s a cheater.”

  Coach Nathaniel has not responded to these allegations.

  X Factor

  Earlier this week, after another emotional loss to the Blue Team, Coach Simon made the controversial choice to eat the ball.

  “It was crazy,” recalled Blue Team forward Arnold Munder. “He just shoved it in his mouth and swallowed it.”

  It is unclear what type of ball will be used for today’s game, with both marbles and grapes being discussed as possibilities.

  In any case, sources believe that Coach Simon is near his “emotional breaking point” and that another loss could make him “finally completely snap.”

  Suspicions of Tampering

  Earlier this morning, Coach Nathaniel was called in for a secret closed-door meeting with League Commissioner Mom as well as Grandma, the owner of Foosball Stadium.

  While it isn’t fully known what was discussed, it’s rumored that Coach Nathaniel was pressured by league brass to allow Coach Simon’s Red Team to win the championship.

  “I can’t take a tantrum today,” Mom was overheard whispering. “We’re flying to New York, I have to get him on an airplane, and I just can’t take it. I can’t take it.”

  According to sources, Coach Nathaniel suggested that she drug Coach Simon with a children’s Benadryl. The proposition was considered but ultimately rejected, since Coach Simon was “getting heavy,” and carrying him out of LaGuardia would be “a nightmare.”

  Sources claim Coach Nathaniel was offered Ovaltine to throw the match. This bribe was refused, but apparently some Nutter Butters did exchange hands.

  Postgame Report

  In a match some foosball fans have called “a total farce,” Coach Simon’s Red Team defeated the Blue Team today by a score of 10–0. Rumors of corruption are rampant, with many spectators asking for a refund.

  All ten goals were scored “accidentally” by members of the Blue Team, who repeatedly kicked the ball backward, into their own net.

  “You want to win,” said Red Team halfback Donald Mursgard, “but not like this.”

  Coach Nathaniel, who openly ate Nutter Butters throughout the forty-two-second match, had no comment for reporters. Coach Simon did speak to the press for several minutes, but unfortunately, his comments were unintelligible. The conference ended with him falling down and flailing his limbs in a kind of ecstatic mania. It was around this time that Commissioner Mom offered him some Ovaltine. Coach Simon complained that the drink tasted “like medicine,” but that did not stop him from consuming the whole glass and asking for seconds. As he waited for his refill, the jubilant coach fell asleep, victorious at last.

  Birthday Party

  Stephen moved to Bed-Stuy right after college, determined to make it as a writer. At first, his goal was to publish only pieces he believed in: long-form journalism, first-person essays, maybe the occasional short story. Within a year, though, it was clear that he’d set the bar too high. He owed two months of rent to his roommates, and he’d eaten so much instant ramen, he’d contracted sodium poisoning. If he wanted to survive, he had to lower his creative standards.

  In his second year in Bed-Stuy, he started writing online celebrity profiles. In his third year, he moved on to celebrity listicles. In his fourth, he transitioned to recaps of reality shows. By his five-year college reunion, which he chose not to attend, he was mostly writing captions for slide shows about dogs. He was working on a long one about pugs when an email popped into his inbox. A friend from his college literary magazine had landed a gig at Zipbop.com, a “corporate branding” start-up in San Francisco. The business was expanding, and they were looking to hire “content specialists.” Stephen wasn’t entirely sure what all that meant, but he downloaded a résumé template, rattled something off, and within two weeks he was living in California.

  Since then, his life had been a blur of sun and bliss. Each day he Ubered to his open-plan office, drank a double espresso, and went to a “dreamscaping” session, where every idea he uttered, no matter how vague, was met with respectful “hmms” by his new colleagues. He wasn’t sure how his company made money or even what services they provided. But they seemed to be thriving. In his first six months on the job, he’d been to four company-mandated wine tastings. At some point, the office had hired a full-time masseuse. For Christmas, his boss gave him a mountain bike.

  For the first time in memory, he was sleeping through the night without having sweat-drenched money nightmares. His student loans were paid off, and his credit score was climbing. He hadn’t felt such an intense sense of relief since the summer after eighth grade, when his orthodontist had removed his orange-and-purple-colored braces.

  Stephen wasn’t religious, but he felt the need to say “Thank you” to the universe. And it was in this spirit of gratitude that he planned his thirtieth birthday party.

  He invited the entire Zipbop family, including several bearded coders who never spoke and made him feel uncomfortable. He sprung for shrimp cocktail and Joel Gott Zinfandel. Even the cake was a crowd-pleaser—a multitiered sponge with creamy chocolate frosting. Pretty much the only thing he screwed up was the candles. He forgot to buy them until the last minute and had to pick some up at an odd, unmarked curio shop. The store only offered one type of candle and they didn’t mesh great with the cake. They were squat, red, and engraved on all sides with screaming skeletons. Still, at least they were small. Stephen had no trouble fitting thirty of them in a
circle around his name.

  “Happy birthday, dear Steph-ennnnnn…happy birthday to you!”

  Stephen blew at the oddly shaped candles, then flushed with embarrassment. Almost half of the wicks remained lit.

  “Whoops!” he said to the crowd. He was about to blow out the rest when something strange occurred to him.

  Time, it seemed, had stopped.

  Stephen’s guests were frozen where they stood, like wax-museum versions of themselves. Their limbs were stiff and posed, their eyes cold and unblinking. One of the bearded coders was frozen in the middle of spilling his drink. A few drops of vodka hung beside his wrist, suspended in the air like floating beads of glass.

  The only thing moving was a skinny, slouched kid on the other side of the room. He was staring at Stephen from inside a bright blue sphere that resembled a giant soap bubble.

  Stephen put on his glasses and studied the boy as he stepped out of the orb. He was too young to be on the guest list, but everything about him looked familiar: the Sex Pistols tee shirt, the half-dyed spiky hair, the orange-and-purple-colored braces.

  Stephen glanced at his cake and counted the candles he’d failed to blow out: fourteen. He felt a chill down his back. Of course—the kid walking toward him was fourteen on the dot. Stephen remembered that birthday clearly. His mother had begged him to change out of his Sex Pistols tee shirt before Grandma saw it. He’d refused, insisting that she “see the truth.”

  “What’s going on?” the kid asked.

  “It’s my thirtieth birthday party,” Stephen responded shyly. “Or, I guess, our thirtieth birthday party!”