Daisy Dukes and Other Short Shorts

The Ballfield

The Ballfield

Out in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois, the sun seems to move slower through the sky, like a melting ice cream cone that lazily drips at its own, relaxed pace. Beneath it, the land lays quieter. The bustle of the city, only a cool thirty minutes down the road, has no sway here. This is the land of trimmed front lawns and big oak trees, the kind of place where neighborhoods blend into one another, only distinguishable by the occasional welcome sign.

Roselle is just another of those no-name towns, its most prominent feature a squat water tower, only distinguishable if you know where to look. If you enter from the west, as most people do on their way to the city, you'll spot the Brew and Grow, tucked in right next to a strip-mall chapel. Grow lights buzz at all hours of the day, reflecting off the cold steel kegs, a beacon in the night. But the real treasure is past all that.

If you turn down Hattendorf Avenue, which you should, you'll find a collection of tiny, one story houses clustered around a tiny, triangular park. In the center lies a patch of dirt, overrun with weeds. Toward the edges, dirt runs into weeds runs into grass, so that it's nearly impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. But that's not important. It's worth pulling over here, if only for a minute, if only to stand for a moment where the pitcher's mound once lay: after all, it has changed so many lives.

—-

Eight years earlier and five blocks up the road, a small little girl held a banana bat up next to her ear, wiggling it absently. From her spot at home plate on the street in front of her home, she could hear the scuff of sneakers on asphalt, could hear the pitcher yelling at her to "GO SIT DOWN, KATE, YOU JUST STRUCK OUT." Her eyes roved over the cul de sac, searching for an ally. None.

The problem began a few months earlier, when she signed up for her first little league softball team. Quickly, she found she was not blessed to have any kind of pop in her bat. Wiffle ball in the street quickly became a daily request from her friends on the team, and a chore in tolerance for her. Once again, she was the odd one out. And as days melted into weeks, she found herself swinging at anything, like Stevie Wonder with a lightsaber, and making about as much contact.

Which was how she ended up here, two feet firmly planted by the makeshift home plate, a sea of angry voices flooding over her. All she ever does is whiff, her swing's shoddy at best, and, don't you know, you only get three strikes.

With a heavy head, Kate trod back toward the curb where her two teammates sat, knees brought up to their chins. They avoided eye contact. For a moment, it was quiet.

Her sister, Jules, was the first to move. She stood up quickly, pulling the cap off her head and swatting the dust off it before firmly tugging it back on. She swiped the bat out of Kate's hand and pocketed a ball. Finally, she announced her intention: to get Kate to hit. Anything. Everything.

—-

Today, if you stand for just a moment by the backstop of that dilapidated old field and close your eyes, the metallic clang of baseballs striking chain link might just run through your head. You might see a Little League game, or a team practice, or maybe, just maybe, you'll see something more special.

You'll see Jules, perched atop the mound, sighing, telling her sister to level out her swing one more time. You'll see Kate bite at her bottom lip, readjusting her grip on the bat. Her eyes will lock dead on the ball palmed casually in her sister's grip, and in her gaze, you can tell she's going to do this. Jules had promised as much.

And maybe, you'll be lucky enough to see the ball leave Jules's hand in a controlled, smooth arch, see it hover over the heart of the plate for one still, delectable moment. You'll see Kate swing. The ball will keep arcing, in a new direction now, striking against the backdrop of the blue suburban summer sky. It's a mammoth blast for a kid who's never done more than hit a few squibby grounders.

And you might just see see Kate's smile. After all, this field has changed so many lives. 

Author's Note:

This piece is an imitation of the style of one of my favorite authors, Chris Ballard, and his writing in "One Shot at Forever," which is a book I'd recommend to any lover of baseball, fantastically written books, or both! Vote vote vote and comment if you enjoyed reading this piece— I know I enjoyed writing it!