... The value of our preparation was evident on Opening Day as we stood in a perfectly–formed row along the third base line as the Anthem began and our opposite numbers, the San Berdoo Burgers, jostled one another in panicked confusion. “Take off your damn caps,” growled their red–faced skipper. Then an ultra–tall pitcher named Turkey McDermott bounded out of the dugout zipping his fly to “the dawn’s early light” and forced his way in between two players at the center of the line, creating a two–way domino ripple of staggering bodies.
But the comely young Anthem singer was not distracted, for
she was a pro in a manner of speaking, an area girl who had received major TV
time during the regional American Idol audition. Her twin brother had
auditioned too, and though only he had made it to Hollywood,
two–thousand–plus Coyote fans were here today for the girl ... and for
two–for–one hot dogs ... and for the Coyote Cal bobblehead they were giving
away ... and for discount coupons for a weeknight stay at The First Inn–ing ...
and for the game! The girl had willowy arms and a soft reedy voice, and she
sang the Anthem with a front–porch lilt that knocked me out. And I fantasized,
as she “gave proof through the night,” that she would climb her dream ladder as
I climbed mine, until one bright day she would sing the Anthem in L.A. before
50,000 Dodger fans while I warmed up in the bullpen for my hometown Giants. She
teardrop warbled “land of the free and the home of the brave” in a lovely,
austere way, and I tried in vain to catch her eye as she gazed at the crowd
with a grin that expressed both diffidence and awe.
And the season began. I have a record of every pitch of the
game—it was my job to chart the pitches of Johnson Bronson, a Palos Verdes prep
star and the son of a wealthy corporate lawyer who had blessed this detour on
his son's road to Stanford—but it’s the images that remain in my mind—
In the first inning, on the first play in Coyote history,
our centerfielder, Sasha Petrenko—the Roman–bestowed “Al” had already
died—caught a sky-high fly in the most absurd way, gliding three steps in like
a fox–trotting dancer, then three steps back the way he had come, then circling
like Astaire leading his partner while holding the palm of his glove
prayerfully up for the ball, which plopped down into the glove like a gift from
the sky–gods. “Ball caught him,” Pat quipped to Roman, who winced—for it was he
who had certified Sasha a legit centerfielder.
In the second, on a sizzling, sinking liner to right, the
passed–over would–be centerfielder Bitter Chocolate streaked with unerring
instinct to the ball’s precise destination and caught it a mere two inches from
the ground—then threw it to second on three miserable bounces in a hapless
effort to nab the retreating baserunner.
B.C. also impressed with the bat, launching a tracer down
the right field line for a sure two–bagger that turned into three when the
rightfielder bobbled the ball just for a moment, unnerved by B.C.'s speed and
daring.
Rhino made an impression at the hot corner when he stood his
ground against a one–hop rocket that glanced off his glove and smashed into his
chin. He pounced on the ball as if seeking revenge, then fired to first with
such unrestrained fury that the elegant Milk Chocolate altered his stance to
catch the ball from the side and plucked it from the air with the deftness of a
cook pulling a lobster from boiling water with tongs. “Attaboy, son,” Roman
told Rhino as Pat daubed the admirable gash on his chin in the deep dugout
shade. Rhino's smile emerged like a night–blooming flower.
The strongest impression was made by Rex. Big Turkey
McDermott, the San Berdoo closer, took the hill in the ninth to maintain the
tie and filled with dragon fire upon hearing a cacophonous clamor of “Gob!
Gobble! Gob! Gob!" from two busloads' worth of San Berdoo fans. And the
Turkey was scary.
Six–foot–five and lanky, with General Custer curls and a corn–silk mustache
that drooped to his jawline and spilled halfway down his throat, his pitching
motion was a complex untangling of elbows and knees that at apogee pointed one
long arm with deadly intent at the head of the batter while the other stretched
halfway back to second. At this point in his delivery he thrust himself
plateward with a mad turkey–hop while his throwing arm described an enormous
arc as it catapulted one of two pitches home: a sizzling fastball which rode
high at the chest or an overhand curve with a waterfall drop. He struck Rhino
out on three straight drops, and Rhino slammed his helmet on the plate—it
recoiled painfully into his shin. The Burger fans “Gob! Gobbled!” with glee
while Rhino glared darkly at Turkey, who had not taken care to hide either his
elation at the strikeout or his mirth at Rhino's mishap. B.C. then flailed at
two wicked curves that dropped from chin to shin, and the Turkey, having taught
the poor boy that his high pitch would break, unleashed a shoulder–high
fastball that corkscrewed Bitter down into the ground with such profitless fury
that dust swirled like smoke. Ah, but Manny was next. As skilled with the bat
as he was with the pool cue, he patiently poked a curve into right.
Roman sent Rex in to pinch run. And with Rex on first, The
Turkey was trussed. Bound–up in the stretch, his delivery lost its wild–winged
grandeur and his pitches lost bite; he was cumbersome to the plate and
cumbersome to first. Which Rex noticed. Crouched a daring ten feet from the bag,
Rex's brown eyes shone beneath fuzzy brows that wriggled with delight—a useful
“tell” in late night poker games—as he drew sizzling throws from the incensed
giant—this in order to study his move. On the third pitch he pushed off towards
second like a sprinter erupting from the blocks as Turkey began the unfurling
process, and was more than halfway to the bag as the ball reached the catcher,
who consequently rushed his throw. The ball skidded into centerfield, and Rex
popped up like a water skier and glided towards third with a powerful flurry of
short-legged strides. He should have made it easily; but the centerfielder, a
former third–round pick of the Tigers who had fallen to drugs and was trying a
comeback, fired a skidding strike that beat Rex clean. Didn’t matter: for Rex,
seeing the glove lowered before the bag, leapt feet-first, bent his leg back
and unleashed a kung fu kick at the glove which popped the ball out like a mole
from a hole. Pat, coaching third, slapped Rex’s head while two guys in the
dugout, then five, then ten, “Gob-gobbled!" like turkeys as Roman punched
Rhino playfully on the arm: “Now that’s winning
baseball, Rhino my boy!”
And the Turkey went wild, hop–stomping all around the mound
in unrestrained fury. He threw the rosin bag down in disgust and strode back up
on top of the mound to stare in for the sign with dragon–nostrils flaring, free
now to return to his windup in all its unrestrained power and glory. But Rex
made a sudden feint towards the plate which so angered Turkey that you had to
wonder what it would be like to see him attack the nine–inches shorter Rex (Ah,
but he couldn’t, could he? All hail the fairness of the non–contact sport!).
The dismayed pitcher's peril was not lost on the Burgers’ manager, who strolled
to the mound to calm his wild Turkey. This mission completed, Turkey drew a
deep breath as his manager had suggested and stared in for the sign resolved to
ignore Rex, who smiled with the pleasure of doing derring–do. Turkey began his
complex pitching motion with renewed confidence—but at the midpoint of his
delivery, he noticed Rex charging down the line as if to steal home. Turkey
thought for a moment of throwing to third to gun down the pest, then thought
better of it, stopped—and was called for a balk. Rex trotted home with the
winning run, pouncing on the plate in a high rainbow arc like a coyote catching
a mouse in the brush.
And victory was ours! And we mobbed Rex in the manner we had
all seen countless times growing up, forming a throbbing human circle around
him and jumping wildly with arms linked as we whooped and hollered along with
the crowd. This, I thought, is true exultation, this is the jubilation that
non–believers like me miss out on when the Holy Rollers and gospel choirs do
their thing in church. Twenty young men stomped and screamed and danced and
whirled, and my arms clung tight to two pairs of strong shoulders while two
strong arms clung tight to me. They were someone's arms, no one's: we were one
joyous body.
But Roman stood aloof, with a feeble grin weighed down by
surprise, hurt, and loathing. He caught my inquiring gaze—I had a writerly
penchant for staring—and explained with a disbelieving head–shake as the circle
dissolved, “Pretty faggoty way of celebrating, if you ask me.” His gaze sought
commiseration, but I returned a noncommittal smile, so he shrugged it all off
as if he’d been joking. Then he approached the hero.
“Where’d you learn that slide, son!” He extended his hand to
Rex in the age–old standard white-American way.
“My dad,” answered Rex, fending off his teammates’ macho
noogies. “He was the fastest and smallest kid in his league back in Brooklyn,
and those kids knew every trick in the book—and that old graybeard hipster
taught me everything I know about baseball. And life too, for that matter.”
Roman looked askance at the notion of a hipster knowing
anything about baseball or life, but that didn’t stop him from hoisting Rex up
into great forklift arms and carrying him like a babe into the shower room and
dumping him on the floor, where Rex coyote–howled while the guys held him down
beneath the cold water.
from The Mighty Roman. Thanks for visiting!
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