I am truly thrown for a loop by my father's response in the dugout. He saw the top of the first inning right? He knows what the score is right? I leave my father confused, defeated still by the disappointment that comes with giving up seven runs in one inning. One by one my teammates, the defenders, come trickling into the dugout. They were all out there cooking in the sun for so long, and on my account. I put my head down. I am failing this lot. My best friend and first baseman Russell Sampson plops down next to me in reverent silence. He sees the look on my face. Not even Russell can lighten the mood. "Get ready to mop up out there for me today Russell," I say. Russell is our break-glass in case of emergency backup pitcher. He is likely to be needed this afternoon given the one-sided nature of this affair. Russell nods in grace silence. Maybe he'll pick me up when he takes over. I am totally gassed. I am panting like my neighbor's labrador.
I have an idea. "Hey Danny!" I go to my little brother for aid, bossing him around in a loving way only older brothers can fully understand. "Get me my second Gatorade from ma." Danny responds in earnest, bounding out of the dugout in search for mom and that mythical, all-powerful potion, Gatorade. Gatorade, a lemon-lime flavored gasoline with magical powers. My mom carefully and faithfully rations out the bottles for me, ensuring their availability in dire times of need such as these. She reserves one bottle for me after practice. Twice weekly. One bottle for weeknight ballgames. Once weekly. One bottle for Sunday afternoons after my father and I mow two-three of the five lawns in our little lawn business. My Grandma on my mother's side owns three of the properties. two bottles are reserved for daytime ballgames. The second Gatorade is typically a measure of last resort, saved for innings five and six. A final boost designed to propel me through the finish line. Today I need it in the bottom of the first inning. My mother comes through as she always does. Danny didn't have to go and get her. She was already on the way. She decides to deliver the magical potion to me personally. Ugh. Not in front of the guys ma.
"My goodness it is a scorcher out." She looks at me with concern. I am more son than ballplayer to her. "Are you sure you want this now? Maybe some water Izzy. That's the last Gatorade we've got." Yes mom I'm sure. "Don't drink this too fast now." She hands me the magical potion with a tender caution. The lemon-lime flavored gasoline hits my lips and I feel the life returning to me. As twelve-year old boys often do, I ignore my mother's advice, downing the magical potion in one long draw. I imagine the liquid exiting my body through my pores as I drink it in. I wish my ma had ten more bottles of this stuff. "He's pushing you too hard isn't he?" My mother searches my red face with a loving concern. "I'm find ma." I turn away. Not in front of the guys. Her presence in the dugout is a detriment to my toughness. I fail to appreciate the tenderness of her love for me. "He's fine Martha! Go back to the stands!" my father shouts from the 1st base box. My father gets it. "You're making him soft." He adds. "We are right here cheering you on son." My mother encourages me before dutifully retreating back to my sisters in the stands.
Ping! Our leadoff man connects bat with ball and gets on base. The table setter, preparing a feast for our offense. I walk slowly into the batter's box, attempting to conserve my energy. I make small talk with the umpire as I settle in. My father always advised me to befriend the umpires. Could get us an advantage in a big spot later on. This umpire is one of my favorites, he has an even temperament and a fair and consistent strike zone. He is large and bearded and wearing dark blue today. Yikes. He looks like one of those deep sea divers with his oversized pads and cage-like helmet. He might be the only poor soul out here sweating more than me. "Scorcher out huh?" I cleverly recycle my mother's comment as I kick the dirt around in the batter's box and settle in. "Well it wouldn't be so bad but it took you half an hour to get three outs out on that mound." He teases back in jest. I laugh. It rings true. "I'm out of gas already." I tell him. He knows this is true. He nods. I take the first two offerings. Practicing the patience my father taught me. Measuring the speed and movement of the opponent's pitches. I'm right on time for pitch #3. Contact. I smoke it over the Bad Guys' shortstop. My cheering section erupts, rallying around the positive action. I breathe a sigh of relief. It sure does feel good to contribute. Another building block in the rebuilding of my confidence. Both myself and the leadoff man come around to score on a clutch double by Russell. Bad Guys: 7 Good Guys: 5: 2.
I sit at the end of the dugout and stare straight ahead. Pitchers are allowed to be standoffish and superstitious on the day they take the ball. I heard this during a television broadcast of a professional baseball game once. I want some more runs but we stop at two, stranding poor Russel out there on 2nd base. I breathe the desert air in and prepare to return to the mound. My dad, returning from the first base dugout, purposefully meets me there. "Look son," he gestures at the scoreboard. "It's only 5-0." He is right. The deficit is cut to only five. I remember what he said when I first got to the dugout. The encouragement of his words have a delayed detonation effect. There is a lot of game left. Let's do this.
