| Take
me out to the ball game, and then the hospital
By Steve Shinney
Baseball. The word alone conjures
up feelings of patriotism and nostalgia in many American
men.
Me, I'm just glad I survived it.
It was our last game. It didn't have
to be, but all the school-ground bookies had bad odds
against us. Because of the importance of the game, the
coach wanted to increase our chances by keeping me as
far away from the action as possible. If he could have
convinced me to play football, he would have.
But the merciful creators of Little
League required that every kid play every once in a
while. My once in a while had rolled around again.
So I took my place in the barren
wasteland that was right field, where my coach hoped
I wouldn't do too much damage. If you're a little leaguer,
when you play right field, you don't have to know how
to catch or throw. In fact you don't even have to know
how to play baseball.
When you're 10 years old, all you
have to know is where you left your glove and what color
your team is.
But one coach's bane is another one's
boon. I tried really hard to look intimidating. Like
always I mimicked the other fielders, standing crouched
so I could spring like a panther should the need arise.
The other team's coach wasn't fooled
though. He possessed the inborn ability all baseball
coaches do to be able to pick out the one kid who threw
like a girl from a team of 14. Their coach took one
look at me and knew what to do. He turned to the walking
patch of muscles he had for a second baseman. I can
only assume how their conversation went. I was way out
in the soundproof zone of right field. I couldn't even
hear my own coach yelling at me to pay attention.
"Hey kid who looks like he
should be in high school," the coach probably said.
"Yeah coach?"
"You see that kid in right
field."
The one chasing the butterfly?"
"Yeah, that's him. I want you
to hit the ball to him."
"Should I hit it close enough
to him that an averagely athletic player could catch
it, so that his whole team will hate him and thereby
make this an even more life-ruining event?"
"If you could."
And so, thusly inspired by his coach,
this sasquatch stepped up to the plate. As if he could
actually control where he hit the ball he sent it whizzing
to right field.
Surprising everyone, I leapt to the
left with athleticism normally reserved for kids in
junior high. It was perfect form. Time itself slowed
down to allow reporters to ready their cameras and talent
scouts to take notes. There in the air, stretched out
to make the perfect catch, I felt like my hero, Ken
Griffey Jr.
Only Jr. probably had better depth
perception. As the ball came closer to me I realized
I had made a terrible error. I didn't belong in the
air. I didn't even belong on the baseball diamond. I
tried with all my might to change my direction but in
the air like I was I totally at the mercy of Newton
and his stupid laws.
I was able to watch the ball very
well from this point because it came down right on my
left eye.
I don't remember what I said when
the world went black, but I'm probably glad the right
field sound barrier prevented my parents from hearing
it.
So there I was, writhing in pain,
but I knew that if I didn't do something, the freak-boy
would score. I groped around on the ground in the direction
I felt the ball ricochet off my head. Much to my team's
horror I found it before the center fielder who was
running to save them from me.
I felt my hand grasp the cool leather.
I stood up to hurl it. But which way? My world was still
dark and really spinny. I could hear people yelling
but the sounds were coming from all around.
I wound up and hurled the ball with
all my might, assuming fate would make up for what had
already happened to me and let the ball find its way
right into the glove of my team's catcher for an exciting
tag-out at home plate.
The ball landed in left field of
the diamond next to ours.
The man-child scored. My team eventually
lost.
I spent the rest of the game on the
bench watching with my good eye.
NW
JP
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