THE BAT BOY CHRISTOPHER HOOD
I am on a barstool watching Ralph Cantellanotto’s miniature self perform the ballgame’s highlights on a flat screen when the life-sized version of Ralph Cantellanotto walks in. My mouth goes dry and I’m instantly aware of his body and mine, occupying nearly the same space. Seeing a big leaguer outside the confines of the ballpark is like seeing your math teacher buying breakfast cereal, like the difference between driving to the zoo and waking to find a panther on your porch. The bourbon in my right hand shakes. (My left hand, steady as a rock, continues to guard the bowl of bar mix that is my dinner. Are you allowed to say “dinner” when it’s your only meal of the day? It is my meal.). Ralph Cantellanotto walks up to the bar to my left, leans against it, gestures to the bartender and sits. He is a mere couple of bar stools away. The only other time I saw a baseball player this close, I was eight years old, and he appeared to be a legitimate giant. I am no longer eight, but Ralph Cantellanotto still appears to be just larger than life-sized. He reaches for the bar mix, looks at me and I yield my meal willingly to him. “Thanks,” he says. I never knew how much money my own father made and yet I know the exact figure for the man sitting to my left: 15 million dollars a year. Given an average of 550 at-bats per season, that means every single time he swings a bat in the on-deck circle, knocks the doughnuts off, steps into the batter’s box and faces a pitcher, he earns roughly 27 grand. The exact numbers don’t matter; no matter what, I am worth less than a single Ralph Cantellanotto strikeout, and yet, here we are. It is Sunday night, leaning perilously close to Monday morning, and for the moment we are both just Christopher Hood
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