Thursday, May 12, 2005

Ball Boy

I really hadn’t done anything remotely like it since I was a small child, but a few years ago Dave and I started throwing a baseball around a bit.  Mainly it was just hardball catch, with some softball too ‘cause Dave is in a league; we’d just have a relaxed afternoon in a meadow hurling the rock back and forth.  Sometimes our wives came along to take the air and keep each other company; sometimes it was just us.  The arc of the ball, the flat slap of the ball into the glove traveling right up my arm and clear to my heart… there’s a reason people do these things: they feel good and they are deeply satisfying.  I enjoyed my occasional games of catch.

And that’s the thing: I really didn’t do things like that.  I had a glove, yes, but it was basically unused, sitting in a closet under the guest linens.  I didn’t play team sports, or follow them much; I didn’t golf or play tennis or any such thing.  I rode my bike, sometimes, was all.  My juvenile t-ball experience had been a disaster.  So this game of catch with Dave was a fine break in my stultified patterns. 

And as I rebuilt - or built for the first from scratch - my sense of an inherent capacity to do these things, to throw where I aimed and catch what I spied, I felt comfortable with Dave.  He’s like a brother to me, after all, and I had the sense that I could try my best with him and, if I failed, threw the ball away or flubbed an easy catch, it would still be okay.  We were just goofing around.

Then he called me one day with an invitation to play a little toss-n-catch with some other friends - two guys from his softball team.  Nice guys, certainly - mellow and non-judgmental.  Plus, with four men there to play, we could do some pitch and bat practice too.  So that’s cool, right?  A quiet afternoon in the park with some nice people, seeing if we could make the ball go where we wanted it to go.  I’d already had some basic practice in not looking like a total idiot with a baseball glove.  I shouldn’t have any problem with this.  So off I went, consigning myself to a fate as yet unrecognizable to me. 

When we reached the diamond at Rossi playground, the little neighborhood park that tourists never visit, they were already there.  One was smacking fungoes to the other, and together they presented that picture of serene activity or active serenity that sportsmen seem to cultivate and that, consequently, I found rather daunting.  Who was I to be joining those avatars of relaxation and fitness, of action at a distance and veritable psychokinetics?  Would I fatally disrupt the vibe?  Would my ignominious days as a playground klutz come back to haunt me?  Was I heading toward the destruction of a stranger’s good time?  I couldn’t turn back, in fear of the answer.  I could only forge ahead and see what happened. 

I limbered up in anticipation of some quick turns and hard throws.  I shuffled my feet in the dirt and pounded my fist into my glove.  I even tugged on the bill of my cap.  No one would know that I was in uncharted waters.  All I had to do was keep my mouth shut.

Of course, that was impossible for me; the next time the ball came around to me in the warm-up, I chucked it back with the self-minimizing admission, “you know, I don’t get a chance to practice this sort of thing very often.” Of course, this was met with a chorus of disclaimers and assurances, but at least I’d made my position clear.  I’d deflated any expectations they might have had for me.  The pressure was off. 

One of the new guys pitched to the other and I took up a spot around shortstop; Dave filled the gap between first and second.  The first hit was a sharp drive into the dirt out toward me – except, not quite at me; as the streaking ball hit the infield and bounded up and out in a blazing instant of smeared light, I recognized instinctually that it was coming in about eight feet to my right.  Since I’m a rightie, the glove was on my left hand – the wrong side for snagging a hot one-hopper to the dexter side.  And there wasn’t any time to dawdle over a solution to this quandary. 

Instead, I stepped hard to the right with my right foot and let the motion of my stride rotate me to face the outfield; at the same time, I reached straight out to the left with my left hand – which was now where the ball was headed; turning my palm backwards and opening the pocket of the glove, pinky up, thumb down, glancing behind me over my left shoulder, I watched the ball slam into the webbing just as neat as you please. 

I finished my little pirouette, let my momentum spin me back around to face home plate again.  The batter’s face wore an expression of disbelief (in having been robbed of a solid hit to the hole) mixed with respect for this mysterious stranger with the hot hand.  I threw the ball lightly back to the pitcher.  He caught it with a wry smile on his face. 

“I thought you said you weren’t very good at this,” he queried.

“I never said that,” I responded.  “I just said I didn’t get to practice much.”

As the afternoon wore on my throwing arm deteriorated till I couldn’t be trusted to deliver the ball within 180 degrees of my target.  I couldn’t feel bad about that, though.  On the critical first play, I’d nailed a wicked drive, plucked it from the air like it belonged to me.  It was a great feeling.  I may never experience it again, but that one catch is still sending a delicious shiver up my arm.