Nine

Part 2

“Mike, tell me when you’ve had enough, okay?”

“I’m good,” I say and he lets go of my arm. I jog out to the mound, listening to the silence within the cheers of the crowd, the Creature hovering over me. I recall my focus. Concentrate on Jimmy’s glove. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. The ball bounds back past me to the second basemen. He snags it easily and tosses it to first to complete the play. The ball comes back to me and I study the stitches; one long curling line of raised Vs nestled within each other hugging the seam of the leather holding it together. When I was small I found a ball rotting in the school yard. The soggy stitches had sagged and split, the leather was peeling away from the hard core. I pulled the two peanut shaped swatches off. I don’t remember what I expected to find but I remember being surprised at their shape. How did these shapes make a sphere? Only by fitting perfectly together.

On my mound I run my finger along the seam, delicate and strong at the same time. I’ve seen balls that stay intact throughout batting practice, scuffed and marked but still strong in the stitches. I’ve seen balls that split with one mediocre hit, the stitches ripped leaving a gap between the leather pieces. I never questioned why one is destroyed when another remains unscathed. Until now.

Those thoughts run through my head while I watch Jimmy’s fingers wiggle in signs. I realize I don’t know what he’s called. I sign for a repeat and he complies. Split finger fastball, low and away. I nod and put my hand in my glove to grip the ball. My two first fingers grip the seams widest apart, each resting with the seam on the inside. Using the seam the right way sets the ball spinning with the pitch. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. The batter watches the strike pass by. Jimmy nods and points and tosses the ball back. This time I concentrate on his signs and he calls for a curve ball high and in. I lay my fingers together on the curl of the seam. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. It hits Jimmy’s target and the umpire calls ‘Ball!’ It’s a set up pitch, the call doesn’t matter. I watch Jimmy’s signs again, spinning the ball in my hand. The seam stands up from the smooth leather and brushes against my fingers as the ball turns. Another curve, further inside. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. Ball two.

Jimmy nods and tosses the ball back out to me. I’m caught again in his soothing rhythm, my thoughts shaken out of my head by our rocking. Fastball, low and away. Safely outside. My fingers line up with the narrow seam, right on top. I used to get blisters from throwing too many fastballs. The strength of the stitching that held the two pieces of leather together would rub and rip at my fingertips. Now my fingers are toughened and calloused. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. The batter swings his bat through the strike zone, missing the ball as it flies by outside and out of reach. I usually relish in the frustration a batter will show with a strike like that. Not tonight. Jimmy signs for a repeat pitch. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. Swing and strike three.

The Creature grumbles. The batter slams his bat down and storms past his teammate who holds his hand up waiting for a ‘high five’. The new batter shakes his head and steps up to the plate. I rest in Jimmy’s rhythm and it takes two balls and a foul for the batter to fly out to centre field. I head to the dugout and forget not to look up at her seat. She blows me a kiss.

That’s how she first kissed me. I settle in for the inning. My teammates store their gear then sit away from me further down the bench. They know I don’t like to chat when I’m pitching the game. Maybe that’s it. She first kissed me by touching her fingers to her lips and blowing it out to the field as I walked back to the dugout. It was the first game she came to watch me pitch. I hadn’t wanted her to come. It made me nervous. She was the first girl who made me nervous at my games, and the last. The minor league stands were small and empty. She sat behind our dugout. I pitched a horrible game and the manager yanked me in the third inning. I was furious. Furious at him for not letting me work it out. Furious at myself for sucking so badly. Furious at her for insisting on coming. Without thinking I glared up to her seat while I stomped off the field, ready to throw my glove into the dugout. She blew me a kiss. I stopped and I smiled. What else could I do?

After the game she met me outside the club house door. “Good game,” she said with a laugh in her voice.

“No it wasn’t.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?” I loved the way she tipped her head when she asked a silly question. I shook my head and started towards the car, expecting her to follow.

“Hey,” she called from behind me. I turned to face her determined to stay cranky. She smiled and stepped closer. “I blew you a kiss.” I nodded, trying not to smile. “You didn’t kiss me back.” And so I did.

She seemed to know when I was struggling in a game. She’d catch my eye and toss me a kiss. It sometimes worked too. Somehow that small gesture could reset me and I’d settle down, start over and do better. Not always, but enough that I started to look for it when the game got tough.

When I accompanied my father’s casket down the church aisle she blew me a kiss.

The Creature bellows and roars and I look up to see what is happening on the field. A player is toe to toe with the umpire spitting arguments in his face. The other team’s manager runs out of their dugout, his face red and his mouth flapping. The umpire stands still as the manager pulls his player away and takes his place to argue a call. I have no idea what happened but our third baseman is jogging into our dugout collecting high fives and slaps on his ass. He must have scored. The manager stalks back to his bench, the words he shouts over his shoulder are lost in the like-minded shouts from the crowd. Our player steps in and lines out to first. Their fielders trot to the third base line as ours mount the steps onto the turf. I find my glove and follow.