by Mark Gimenez
Joey in center field, Cole on first, and Mitch at short were good athletes who knew how to play baseball. Skipper at third wasn't as good, but he tried to make up for his lack of skill with enthusiasm. He chanted at every batter on every pitch: "Come on batter batter batter, swing batter!" Which drove the batters nuts. And me, too. After six innings of that, I wanted to clock Skipper with an aluminum bat.
Osvaldo at second stood just over four feet tall and wasn't as good as his dad thought he was, but with a name like Osvaldo Rodriguez—his dad called him "O-Rod"—he figured he was a sure bet for the pros.
Curtis behind the plate was a C student so he didn't think twice about blocking pitches in the dirt, and Cade on the mound was the star of the team. Mom said he was a prima donna, which means he thinks he's special. He did. He fussed at the umpires if they called balls when he was pitching and strikes when he was batting, he griped at us for committing errors and ruining his win-loss record, and he wore a cup that was way too big for an eleven-year-old kid. But he was the best pitcher and hitter on the team, and he was Coach Slimes' son, so we had to put up with his All-Star attitude.
But that's little league.
Outside the fences, the dads paced back and forth, coaching from the sidelines—"Come on, Johnny, you're killing me, son! You gotta turn on that ball!" The moms sat in the stands drinking their mocha-coca lattes and chatting or texting on their cell phones, but every other game you'd get the helicopter mom who yelled out to her son, "Ricky! Let me know if you need help with your cup!" Funny, sure (for everyone except Ricky), but that kind of thing could scar a kid for life. Anyway, the stuff going on outside the fences was often more entertaining than that going on inside the fences.
That's little league, too.
Kids my age and skill level—in the 10/11 rec fall ball instructional league—we played "daddy ball." All the coaches were the players' dads—the dads coached so their kids could play. Most, though, didn't have a clue how to instruct in the fundamentals of baseball since their only prior baseball experience had been daddy ball when they were kids; but they coached so their sons would get to play their favorite positions even if they weren't any good. (Mom called it "nepotism," but I didn't know what that meant; all I knew was that I was stuck playing outfield.)
Anyway, my dad had been our coach before he deployed. He had played baseball in college, so he taught us the correct fundamentals. And he knew that you couldn't master the fundamentals of baseball at ten. So he didn't go ballistic when we committed errors, which was often. There were a lot of errors in little league. If I let a grounder go through my legs or dropped a pop fly, he never yelled at me. Baseball was about having fun. He would always say, "It's not about winning, boys, it's about having fun. Let's have some fun today." I always had fun when he coached.
Baseball wasn't as much fun without my dad.
It was so weird to look over to our dugout and not see him standing there. He had coached every one of my games the last three years except for a couple when he had to put out a burning house or rescue a utility worker from a telephone pole, which I understood. I mean, saving a house or the telephone guy was more important than watching me strike out three times.
But Coach Slimes now stood where my dad had stood. He was wearing a white Dodgers jersey that was tight around his big belly and stretch knit coach's shorts that dropped down in the back and exposed his crack, which sort of made me nauseous. (Mom said he looked like a plumber in a baseball uniform.) Coach wanted desperately to win the rec league championship, as if putting the cheap little trophy on his mantel would make his life. He counted the days until his son Cade signed a multimillion-dollar major league contract, probably with the New York Yankees. "He's another Mickey Mantle," Coach had said a hundred times.
I wasn't.
Coach said I was more Mickey Mouse than Mickey Mantle. Funny, but he never said that kind of stuff when my dad was the head dad and he was just an assistant dad. My dad said I was going to be a late bloomer, which was better than being an early bloomer. He said a lot of guys he grew up with were stars in junior high but didn't even play in high school. They had bloomed early, then wilted. "Max," he said, "when you bloom, watch out." Which sounded good, but I couldn't help but wonder, What if I never bloom?
Cade was an early bloomer. He was tall and lean, and he actually had muscles. He had struck out every batter so far, which was good for the team, but it made the game boring for an outfielder. My mom waved at me from the bleachers behind the home plate fence. I waved back.
"Max, quit waving to your mommy and pay attention!" Coach Slimes yelled.
Mom gave him a glare. She said Coach Slimes was a moron. I liked that about her. I also liked that she didn't act like the other moms and tape my every movement at every game on a camcorder or call me "Big'un" or yell "You da man!" whenever I got up to bat or run out onto the field screaming "My baby! My baby!" every time I took a fastball in the ribs and collapsed to the dirt and writhed in excruciating pain. Whenever that happened, my dad always walked over from the dugout and squatted next to me and said in a real calm voice, "I know it hurts, Max. Just breathe deep and slow and the pain will ease. Deep and slow. That a boy."
Coach Slimes just yelled from the dugout: "Man up, Max!"
"You're up, Max!"
Coach always put me last in the batting order—my batting average was exactly .000 because I had struck out every single at-bat—so I didn't bat until the bottom of the third inning. My dad always said, "Remember, Max, Babe Ruth struck out one thousand three hundred thirty times in his career. But he also hit seven hundred fourteen home runs." I always thought he made a good point. Problem was, while I was chasing the Babe's strikeout record, I had yet to hit a single home run. Or triple. Or double. Or single. Or to reach base on a fielding error.
My bat had never even made contact with the ball!
I walked up to home plate. I was left-handed, so I dug in with my left foot deep in the batter's box. I dug in and stayed in. I never bailed out of the box. I wasn't afraid of the ball; I just couldn't hit the dang ball.
We were playing the White Sox. Vic was their catcher. He and his crew played baseball too because their Pony league football games were on Tuesday afternoons and the baseball games were on Saturday. He had regained some of his nerve over the past two days, so he taunted me from behind his mask.
"Maybe you should play softball with the girls, Max. The ball's as big as a grapefruit, maybe you could hit it."
I made a throw-up sound and leaned toward him, which made him jump back.
"Fooled you," I said.
Vic's eyes flashed dark. "Get ready to duck."
In rec league, the biggest and strongest boys always pitched because they could throw the ball the hardest. The White Sox pitcher was really big, and he could throw a baseball really hard. He threw the ball really hard now—right at my head.
I dove to the ground.
Vic laughed. I spit dirt from my mouth, picked myself up and dusted myself off, then proceeded to go down on three called strikes. After that first pitch, I was too nervous to swing. Great—now I'm afraid of the ball. I dragged my bat back to the dugout but glanced over at my family in the bleachers. Mom yelled encouragement.
"You'll hit a home run next time, Max!"
She always said that but it never happened. Norbert seemed fascinated by the game and my big sister, Scarlett was reading her teen vampire romance book, and Maddy was running back and forth in front of the bleachers like Butch, the backyard neighbor's pit bull, in his dog run. When I got back to the dugout, Coach gave me a look of disgust. I figured this was as good a time as any to ask the same question I asked every game.
"Coach, when can I play first base?"
"When there's a Republican in the White House."
"Does that mean no?"
"Yes, that means no."
"Yes means no? That's confusing."
"Get out to left field."
I was standing out in left field the nex
t inning trying to get my cup adjusted. The sun was blazing down, and it was getting pretty hot. I had broken out in a full-body sweat, which made my skin chafe under the cup. Man, I was probably going to get a nasty rash. The game was scoreless, but the White Sox had loaded the bases with two outs. Vic was coming up to bat; he was their best hitter. Cade, our pitcher, had walked three straight batters, so you couldn't really blame me for what happened next. But I knew everyone on the team would. I was paying really close attention until someone yelled at me.
"You're a dork, Max!"
I turned to see who it was—Biff, Bud, and Rod were taunting me from the visitors' dugout, which was down the third base line not far from where I was standing—and I was thinking of a witty retort when I heard the ping of Vic's aluminum bat hitting the ball. When I looked back to the field, everyone was looking at me, which meant only one thing: the ball was coming at me. I looked up just in time to see the ball before it hit me in the head.
Three runs scored.
I was lying on the ground, but I heard the fans laughing—you learn pretty fast that spectators at a youth sporting event are a tough crowd. Coach Slimes and my teammates were gathered around, and I was gazing up at them, but they didn't seem at all worried that I might have a concussion. I didn't, because the ball hit the bill of my cap and bounced off, but you'd think Coach would have at least asked if I was okay. Instead he said, "Max, that's a three-run error! You cost us the game!"
Coach knew how to make a kid feel good.
Vic stood on third base with a big grin on his face. He yelled, "Thanks, Max!"
I got up off the ground to a weak smattering of applause because I hadn't suffered permanent brain damage. Thankfully my mom had stayed in the stands; if she had come out to check on me, the guys would have teased me mercilessly. The next batter grounded out to first, and I trudged over to the dugout. The other kids gave me the evil eye and acted totally disgusted with me.
"Way to go, Max," Mitch said.
"You lost the game for us, Max," Skipper said.
"I had a shutout, Max," Cade said, "and you ruined it for me!"
"You walked three batters," I said.
"That umpire's blind!"
I sat on the bench and fought tears. I turned to the bleachers. Mom's head hung low. Scarlett's hands covered her face. Maddy had finally come down from her sugar high and crash-landed in Mom's lap. Her eyes were shut. Norbert's were not; he was staring at me. It was weird, but his expression made me think he could hear what the other kids were saying to me. I gave him a lame shrug.
It was now the bottom of the last inning, and we were in the dugout. We were still losing 3-0, so everyone had already put this game in the loss column and moved on to other more pressing matters. O-Rod and Curtis were debating whether Emmitt Smith or Michael Irvin was the best ex-Dallas Cowboy to compete on Dancing with the Stars … Joey and Skipper were arguing over which video game offered more blood and guts, Modern Warfare II or Medal of Honor … Mitch was sitting next to me and telling me about how his stepmom was a mean witch but his dad didn't believe him because she was twenty-five and looked like a supermodel … and Ronald was pacing the dugout like a TV preacher addressing his congregation:
"The stimulus was a joke. They're raising our taxes and choosing our doctors, and if this cap and trade passes, there won't be any jobs for us when we get out of college!"
No one ever paid any attention to Ronald. His weekly political rants had become routine. Mom said that's what happens when kids are home schooled—they watch Fox News all day.
Coach Slimes abruptly turned from his position at the entrance to the dugout—I thought he was going to yell at us for not paying attention to the game—but he pointed at O-Rod and Curtis and said, "Emmitt was the best, hands down," then he pointed at Joey and Skipper and said, "Medal of Honor," and finally at Ronald and said, "No politics in the dugout! Although you are right."
"Coach," Ronald said.
"What?"
"I gotta pee."
Coach exhaled and dropped his head.
"Little league," he muttered.
The first two batters grounded out, but then the game took a surprising turn. Mitch walked, Cole singled, and Joey got hit by a pitch. The bases were suddenly loaded … which I didn't know because I was sitting on the bench finishing off a Baby Ruth bar (I tried to eat sunflower seeds in the dugout like the big leaguers do, but I kept choking on the shells) and again thinking about that all-beef hot dog smothered in mustard at the concession stand after the game—boy, that's going to taste good—when Coach's loud voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Max—you're up!"
What? I'm up?
"Dad," Cade pleaded, "pinch hit for Max. I can still get the victory."
Coach shook his head. "I would, but I can't. The rules don't allow it. Max has to bat."
Not exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for. Coach turned to me.
"Max, we have two outs. So don't swing. Our only hope is that he walks you."
"But if I don't swing, he might strike me out."
My words came out funny because I was chewing on the Baby Ruth.
"What?"
"If I don't swing, he might strike me out."
Still funny. Still chewing.
"Max, I can't understand what you're saying. Swallow the candy bar."
I swallowed the rest of the Baby Ruth, which took a few seconds because of the chewy caramel center. Coach now had his hands on his hips.
"I said, if I don't swing, he might strike me out."
"If you swing, you'll strike out for sure."
"I could try to put down a bunt."
"Yeah, and I could try out for the Yankees. Don't swing that bat, Max."
I put on a batting helmet and grabbed my aluminum bat. I dragged the bat to home plate. Vic was grinning behind his catcher's mask. He held up two fingers.
"Two outs!" he yelled to his teammates. "And my little sister's a better hitter than Max!"
Actually, she was. She played tee ball and had real extra-base power for a kindergartner. But everyone in the place heard Vic and laughed—except my family. Mom's hands were clenched in front of her face as if she were praying—
"Please, God," Kate Dugan whispered in the stands, "let him get a hit. He needs a hit. Just a little hit, or an error, that'd work, too …"
—Scarlett was again hiding her face in her hands, and Maddy was still sleeping in Mom's lap. But Norbert was gone. He was no longer sitting in the bleachers next to Scarlett. I searched the crowded bleachers and found him standing at the fence right behind home plate. Our eyes met, and he said, "Swing with great force, Max."
I glanced over at Coach. He flashed me the "take" sign—a slap on his right leg—and mouthed "Do not swing." I turned back to Norbert.
"Swing with great force, Max."
I swung with great force at the first pitch and missed the ball by a mile.
Coach yelled, "Max, did you miss the sign?"
He gave me the "take" sign again, real emphatically this time—he slapped his leg so hard I thought he might hurt himself. I looked back at Norbert.
"Swing with great force, Max," he said again.
I swung with even greater force at the next pitch and missed again.
Coach threw his hands up and yelled even louder: "Max! What are you doing? I gave you the take sign!"
He stepped onto the field and called over to the umpire.
"Blue! Timeout!"
The umpire called time. Coach waved me over like there was an emergency or something, so I walked over to him. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees and his mouth in my face, close enough that I knew he had bacon for breakfast and not that organic turkey bacon Mom makes us eat but real bacon, the fatty kind that tasted great and caused heart attacks.
"Max … DO—NOT—SWING—THAT—BAT. Do you understand me?"
I nodded.
"If you take that bat off your shoulder, Max, I'm gonna take that bat and …"
"Just don't swing, okay?"
I nodded then returned to the batter's box. I dug in again then glanced back at Norbert.
"Swing with great force, Max," he said again.
He gave me a thumbs-up, just like my dad used to do. Like he believed in me just like my dad always believed in me. My dad's thumbs-up always made me feel more confident, like I could hit the ball; I never did, but I thought I could. For some reason, Norbert's thumbs-up had the same effect. I felt confident. I took my stance and dug my back foot into the dirt and waggled the bat. I was determined to hit that ball. The big White Sox pitcher wound up, reared back, and threw the ball really hard.
But the ball didn't come at me hard.
It came at me slowly. V-e-r-y … s-l-o-w-l-y. I glanced around. The whole world had suddenly shifted into slow motion. The players in the field, the fans in the bleachers, Vic and the umpire behind the plate—everyone was moving in slow motion. Coach yelled, "M-A-X … D-O … N-O-T… S-W-I-N-G!" His words came out long and slow. Everyone was speaking and moving really slowly. Except me. I looked back at the ball. I could actually see the laces rotating—the pitcher had thrown a four-seam fastball. The ball seemed to be hanging in midair. I had heard great athletes talk about being "in the zone" when the game seemed to slow down for them. I didn't have a clue what they were talking about … until now. I was definitely in the zone. And I knew I could hit that ball. So I kicked my lead leg high like the pros do, then rotated my hips hard and threw the barrel of the bat at the ball with all my might just like my dad had taught me and I—
—hit the ball.
Just as suddenly, the world returned to normal speed, like God had hit the PLAY button on the remote right when I had hit the ball. I heard the resounding ping of the metal bat making impact with the hard leather-wrapped baseball, and I felt an exhilarating vibration run down my arms and through my entire body. It was the best feeling of my entire life, except for that time Mom made double-fudge chocolate cake for my birthday, the kind with the pudding in the middle. I dropped the bat and stood at home plate and watched the white ball rising higher and higher into the blue sky and flying farther and farther and the fans in the bleachers shouting louder and louder and Coach and my teammates running out of the dugout and jumping for joy as the ball flew over the fence and out of the park.
