Nine

Part 1

It never fails to surprise me how much bigger the stadium seems when people are in the seats. The noise they create takes on its own life – an organic entity, a Creature – that hovers over the field. It still makes me nervous. It reminds me of nightmares where I knew someone or something menacing was in the room with me even though I couldn’t see or hear or smell it. It raises the hairs on my neck. Every time.

It’s hot. It’s sunny and it’s Saturday. The perfect kinda day for a ballgame. It’s the kind of day my father would have declared a truce with his warring garden and loaded us into the car to drive downtown where the old stadium was full of families. Cheap seats and a packed lunch. Sun and baseball. I always brought my glove, just in case.

We’re away, the visiting team, so I’ve already been sitting under the noise for half of an inning. The scouting report is encased in a blue binder that is battered with superstition. I keep it perched on my knee, unopened. I’ve memorized the contents. I’ve pitched the entire game in my head and again in warm up, based on those numbers. I need it close by, but I can’t open it. The first half inning is the worst; waiting to start builds my anxiety. Looking through the binder would only make it worse. But like a comfort blanket, I keep it covering my lap.

I feel eyes on me and turn to catch the Manager look away, a guilty blink and fix to his jaw. He’s still wondering. Our conversation this morning ricochets in my memory. “Are you sure?” he had asked. I had already used all of my arguments to talk my way back into the rotation; he’d heard it all already. He thinks it’s too soon, but has the decency to leave it up to me. I am sure that I’m not ready. But when will I be? She’s gone. Nothing will be the same again. Nothing will be right. Waiting won’t change that so I might as well play. Right? I’d rather lose myself in the game.

Two out. Almost time, thank God. My foot is jittering, causing the binder to bounce. I lift it up and tuck it on the shelf above my head. Slip my left hand into the smooth warm leather pocket of my glove. It fits perfectly; my fingers find the worn groves that nestle them with familiarity. A crack pulls my attention to the field in time to see the second basement track and catch the high fly ball. Third out. Time to go.

I step up out of the cover of the dugout into the Creature’s space. The dull buzz of movement brushes against me as I walk to the mound. I keep my eyes on my toes as they fall on the turf. I go to the back of the mound first. I’ve always done that, though I don’t know why. I crouch and touch the dirt. It’s cool and soft under my fingers. I trace the ‘M’. I remember writing my initials in the dirt but I don’t remember when my ‘M’ became my father’s. He didn’t live long enough to see me make it to the majors… I guess this is as good a consolation as I can offer him. I hesitate. With a shaky finger I reach out and touch the dirt again. The sand falls on into dykes on either side of my finger as I trace the trench of an ‘S’. I lift my hand away and it’s as if a spark stretches between the S and the tip of my finger. It hurts. My eyes burn but I blink hard and swallow and pull it together. M. S. I wonder if they see their letters. I wonder if they see me.

I stand looking towards the plate. Jimmy is waiting. He knows my routine. He stands with his hands on his hips laughing at something the umpire has said. I’m glad he’s catching. Nothing against the new kid but Jimmy and I have worked together so long, I’m glad it’s him out here tonight. He knows me. He knows why I’m here. Seeing me ready he nods and punches his glove, then slips into his crouch.

Warm up fastball. I fiddle the ball on the tips of my fingers in my glove. Come set on the rubber and stare into Jimmy’s glove, pulling all of my focus to his ready target. Deep breath. Slow release. I pull my knee up and step forward in a windup then pull my arm back over my head as a catapult hurling the ball straight to Jimmy’s glove. The smack is reassuring. Comforting. Familiar. Jimmy points his glove at me and tosses the ball back. For ten pitches I fall into the easy rhythm. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. I’m not ready, but I’m ready.