Amos White played right field but not very well. In fact, he played so poorly that his manager, Mark, said, "We would win just as many games if no one played right field. Maybe more."
Amos adjusted the strap that held his eyeglasses in place when he chased the light blue butterfly among the daises near the right field fence. "Keep your mind in the game," said Manager Mark. But Amos enjoyed the wind in his face and was content to feel the warm sun on his bare arms.
The next inning a left handed batter hit a pop up to right field but Amos was busy. Daydreaming. He was thinking about...only Amos could tell you that. His teammates shouted: "Amos, Amos," trying to get him to look up and catch the ball. Too late. "Another error for Amos," said Manager Mark.
By the time Amos realized what was happening, found the ball and threw it back in the general direction of the infield, the left-handed batter was rounding third base, heading toward home plate and the high-five smiles of his teammates. "We'd be better off with an open trash can in right field," said Manager Mark. "At least there'd be some chance the ball would fall in the can for an out."
After the game the manager said, "Amos, I'm sorry but your fielding and hitting skills are just not good enough right now. Baseball is a contest and we play to win. This is not recreational therapy. I can help you improve with extra practice. But for now, we have to go with our best nine players, so the trashcan will play right field. He gives us our best chance to win. Next game, sit on the bench and watch him play. See if you can't learn something."
Before the start of the next game, Manager Mark and his assistant removed the trash with its not quite fragrant smell of mostly newly cut grass and cigarette butts. They took it from the four foot tall, rusty brown steel drum and transferred it to bulging black plastic bags which they tied at the top.
In the second inning, the batter was a large-framed pull hitter who had a reputation for hitting the ball over the fence. Manager Mark pointed and waved for his center fielder to make an adjustment: "Move that trashcan toward the foul pole." Later, when a smaller player came up to bat, Manager Mark told his second baseman, "Bring that trashcan up closer."
After the game the trashcan returned to its rightful place aside the team's bench near the third base line. From that spot it did its usual chore of accepting deposits of the following items (and more): popsicle sticks, pizza crusts, weird bacteria, candy and gum wrappers, dog turds, empty bottles and cans, mysterious glass, weeds, swept up dirt, used juice boxes, uneaten and unwanted apples and pumpkin seeds, orange peels, an uninteresting salad, an old cell phone, an expired bus pass and a few UROs (unidentifiable resting objects). A gusty wind whipped some paper off the top of the can. "What's that disgusting smell?" asked Amos.
Before the next game Amos met with the manager who hit the ball to Amos and his glove in right field or pitched the ball to Amos and his bat at home plate. "If the trashcan should for any reason become unable to do his duty and play, you'll go right back in the game. Meanwhile, we'll continue to build your skills so when your time comes, you'll be ready," said Manager Mark.
Next game Amos said, "The trashcan may have the edge in fielding, but he hits no better than I do, possibly worse." Manager Mark said, "We already have all the good hitters we need. What we really need are strong fielders for defense. That is what the trashcan gives us. Meantime, just continue to practice."
Amos watched the trashcan play right field, giving him (or it) his undivided attention. Amos would not take his eyes off the trashcan, not even for a second. He was mesmerized. He asked himself, What does he have that I don't? That's when he saw the trashcan move. On its own. With no help from another player. It seemed to back up ever so slightly, probably because a larger player was now at bat and might hit it over his, uh, head. "No, that's impossible. I must have imagined it," Amos said.
The next game either the trashcan moved or everyone imagined it together because that trashcan rolled back and to its right some twenty feet just in time to catch a line drive headed for a double, possibly a triple depending on how quickly the center fielder could reach the ball. "Time Out," said Manager Mark.
The umpire and Manager Mark went out to right field to investigate. On the underside of the barrel they found three metal tracks, each with four two inch rubber wheels with a ball bearing in the center of each, for a total of twelve wheels, six of them on the rim. "Is this like one of those electronically controlled toy cars?" the umpire asked. "What if it is?" said Manager Mark. "Maybe someone is playing a prank," said the umpire.
The umpire explained the situation to the opposing team's manager who objected on the grounds that a trashcan is not a person and so shouldn't even be allowed to play right field. The umpire found his baseball rulebook in his car's glove compartment. "Does it say you can play if you're not human?" asked the rival manager. "It doesn't say you can't," said the umpire. "I can find nothing in here that forbids trashcans--electronic or otherwise--from playing. I suppose no one ever thought that trashcans would want to play. Besides, we can't say No. This is an equal opportunity sport."
The very next game the trashcan had sprouted (if that's the correct term) new matchstick arms to improve his batting. And his left hand was now in an old glove which meant better fielding. Someone had thrown an old glove into the trashcan, who claimed it as his own. "Call me DeBree," the trashcan told everyone, with a low pitched vibrating voice coming from somewhere deep inside the can. "Welcome to the team" everyone said, except Amos. What makes him go?" asked the first basemen? "Nobody knows," said Manager Mark.
Even though Debree had done a fair job out in right field, the players started treating him as if he were trash. One player brought his brown Labrador retriever who used DeBree as though he were a fire hydrant or a pole or a tree. "That's disgusting," someone said. Others laughed.
Meanwhile, Amos showed remarkable progress and two games later Manager Mark graded and compared his skills with Debree's. For Amos: Fielding B-, Hitting B. DeBree: Fielding B-, hitting C+. "Here's your chance, Amos," said Manager Mark. "Show us what you can do."
This time Amos brought his full attention to the game being played. He made a few putouts in right field, showing off his newly developed ability to catch the ball. And he got a hit that day, too. Perhaps most important, he left the butterflies alone.
But this meant a change for Debree who was returned to his original spot near the bench. And in the coming weeks his glove went missing and his arms disappeared. Finally the wheels were gone. But there were no tears for DeBree. It seems there is no crying in baseball. Maybe basketball would be his best sport.
Amos's team won as many games as they lost and had no chance to make the post-season playoffs. At the last game of the season, Amos watched a squirrel playing in the unmowed center field grass when a baseball came his way. "Amos, wake up," said Manager Mark. Too late. The ball skipped off the top webbing of his glove. But this time, the batter only got as far as second base.
And when in the bottom of the fifth inning Amos happened to look toward DeBree, it seemed that, for just a moment, a strip across his metal body somehow turned upward in the shape of a smile.
