Stymie Magazine
Autumn & Winter ‘10
my back. I appreciate it, but I don‘t need them. I wish I was at his ballpark, in front of his crowd. But this scenario would do just fine. I never thought I‘d get this lucky, and I‘m not about to start complaining. Every pitcher was a batter at some point. When you‘re young you play anywhere, because that‘s part of the game. The old man was no different. He batted his way through college, even when he was pitching once every five days. Out there in the field, he‘d ask me questions. ―What‘s the most important thing a batter can do?‖ I said all the obvious things: hit a homer, get a base hit, bunt. ―Sometimes,‖ he‘d said. ―But most of the time the most important thing a batter can do is stay alive.‖ He was down on one knee and still had to slouch down to look me in the eyes. He towered over me. He looked right in my eyes and told me all I needed to know: ―A pitcher‘s worst nightmare is a batter that he can‘t get rid of,‖ he said. So now he throws one screaming down the middle, a little bit over the knees and out, but too close for Conroy not to ring me up. Campanella says something funny but I don‘t hear it. I think about the old man throwing me balls in the field, how he taught me to fight off pitches just the same as he showed me how to poke one between defenders. It‘s a damn good pitch. I could easily pop it into the gap between first and second. But I‘m feeling selfish. I pull the ball to the opposite side, give the fans a souvenir. Campanella calls time, goes out the mound. He leaves his mask on and the old man puts the glove over his face so no one can read his lips. They have a nice long chat. Conroy has to walk out and remind them there‘s a baseball game going on. The infield is looking stiff. They want this to end. Campanella takes his spot behind the plate, tells me to stop being so fussy. I answer him by sending a nasty breaking
ball down the left field line, foul. That one almost had me. They look like they‘re going to land on the top of your head, and before you know it they‘re in the dirt just behind the plate. They break down through the zone like a bird diving for meat, and best-case scenario means that you can handle the drop or spot a hanger. The next one doesn‘t dive, and I lay off. The old man finally looks me in the eyes. I stare back. It lasts for a long half-a-second. He hasn‘t looked me in the eyes since that last day in the field. The count is up now, and he knows what‘s going on. He‘s got a nightmare on his hands. Maybe he‘s proud in a way. Proud that whatever it was that he taught me out in the field stuck with me. Maybe that‘s true in part. But he knows my skills came because of other men. Other coaches. Other players. Yeah, he started me out. He got the whole thing rolling. And I‘m ending it. ―I think his arm‘s worn out,‖ Campanella says, just before a fastball wails towards my knees. I fight it off down the left field line. A fan jumps the divider to grab it, and security has some fun escorting him out. The next one leaves the old man‘s hand in a hurry too, and I play it down the right field foul line this time. He‘s strolling around the mound now, eyeing the runners, tossing the bag a few times. He takes off his hat, uses his sleeve to wipe his forehead. I call time, step out of the box, stare out at him. He does his waltz around the mound again and I think there‘s a chance he‘s finally getting tired of it. Three pitches later, and I know he is. ―Can‘t figure it out,‖ Campanella says. ―You‘re fighting off bad ones, and you‘re fighting off good ones. What exactly are you waiting for? Underhand toss?‖ The old man fires two more over the plate. One‘s a nasty slider that I almost lose. The fastball I can handle well enough. The fans are having a field day chasing after balls. Every pitch turns into a slow walk around the mound. I can see the dark blue on his arm, from where he‘s been blotting his sweaty forehead. This is his
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