Paul's Boutique

Looking Down The Barrel Of A Gun

Everyone knows the legend of Dave Scilken. A flamethrower...made the varsity team fresh outta 8th grade. When we're spendin' our summers out here, it's because we didn't get on the elite travel squad. Too much work. Not good enough.

The word on Dave was he was scouted by a few major league teams during his senior year, but went to the local junior college to "work on his grades" and eat up playing time. Everyone knows someone who knew him, and claims they saw him throw a no-hitter in person. Everyone has a story. Just like some kids wanna be Mickey Mantle or Babe Ruth, us Cheektowaga kids wanted to be Dave Scilken.

So imagine our surprise when someone called out from right field..."Hey...there he is!" "Who?" "Dave Scilken!" Here come the murmurs, and then the awe. The local hero, pushing a stroller through the park. The life of a ju-co dropout who had one too many great experiences with the ladies wanting a piece of his fame.

Some guys like to just look and stare. Some guys are slightly more adventurous. Oblivious to the fact that he was busy, I figured the only way to approach him was to act like I knew him. After all, don't we feel a little bit of ownership over someone's persona when that's all you hear about in connection with what you're into?

"Hey Dave! Wanna throw with us for a little while?" I prompted, expecting him to drop his kid and say yes, like I didn't know any better.

He looked down, almost dismayed at his baby girl. "Well, I shouldn't. It's been awhile and I..." as he trailed off, lost in his thoughts. He shook his head, and said "Ok, but I'll pitch and pitch only. Both teams. If you guys figure out how to watch my kid."

I ran back to first base side of benched, nearly tripping over the bag with excitement. "You guys! Dave's gonna pitch for us!" We quickly separated into teams, and I took the plate as the honorary leadoff hitter for having the b**** to approach a local icon.

He started me off soft, but with a zip on location that sang into Chuck's mitt behind me. Some kids grow up and get legendary with their hobbies...ridin' bikes turns into motocross champions, readin' books makes you a doctor. Dave is a pitcher...the best there is at a kids' game.

I rapped an offering over his head and into center. I clapped like the pros do once they're settled on the bag, to encourage my teammates. As a threat to steal second, Sambo was attempting to hold me on. Don't think Dave didn't notice. After every other pitch, he tossed a ball our way in an effort to keep me honest. Playing pick-up games, we really didn't do that. Strategy can get lost on us kids sometimes. We're lucky enough just putting the ball in play, let alone stealing a base.

It turned out to be a rough inning for Dave. We tapped him through our order, eventually pushing four runs across the plate. He was serving meatballs, and despite our best efforts on the other side the boys against us scored three of their own. Not an ideal return to the mound for Dave...not that he was trying, but it couldn't have been that fun.

I came up to the plate again, armed with a healthy dose of swagger. Confidence will allow you to do things you don't always do, like run off at the mouth. "Put it in there, Davy! Show me those seams!" And boy, did he ever.

Forget playin' around. The first pitch didn't sing- it thrashed. Over my head, careening off the backstop with reckless abandon as if possessed by a rabid animal. I should've been scared- furious even- but I was too busy thinking about how and where I'd drive the next offering. Too dumb to know better or recognize the situation, I guess. Should've known that the next ball would come at my head. A heater you only see on tv. Whip-smart enough to not hit my dome, but worthy of fear. I'm not tryin' to get killed out here.

I stepped back from the box and shook my head...a big no-no when adults are involved and feelings come into play. Dave's next pitch came right at me. I twisted in an attempt to avoid it, but it grazed my arm in the process of escape. And without hesitation, I dropped my bat and ran...not to first, but right at Dave. I'm not a fighter, but I won't be shown up. There's a line between smack talk and intent to hurt someone. I felt safe behind it. He...did not.

And punches were landed. My boys were too shocked my the events to jump in, and the team behind Dave was paralyzed in fear. Once we hit the ground, I rolled over and tried to regain my senses. This is no way to play! I eventually resorted to turtleing under a furious mixture of punches to my gut. The ol' white flag. Dave relented when it became obvious I wasn't fighting back anymore. There was no apology. No words. Just a separating of manliness. As I turned back to home, I felt a tap on my butt.

"First time anyone's done that to me, kid" Dave spoke with almost a bit of relief, as if he'd never had the authority of his mound challenged before. "You got me good...I'm too old for this." And off he went to the bench, back to his baby girl's stroller being watched over by the poor b****** who wasn't picked to play. "I'm outta here, you guys. Thanks for lettin' me throw a few."

Just like that. The guy comes up, and then he splits. None of us know how to react; still processing the details of what just went down.

We called it game, and a couple guys just rode off. I didn't care to talk about it...it should've been the best day of my little career. I got a hit off Dave Scilken! Instead, I too went off in a slight fit of shame. You just...don't do any of that. Ever. But you did. And with that comes the rep. You stood up to Dave Scilken. You don't take s*** from anyone! What a bada** move! That'll get you picked first, at least for a few days. But in my head, I felt like the biggest jerk. I just fought a dude in front of his kid. I'm pretty sure that puts you in H***. Flame-thrower or not. I just...I don't even know if I wanna ball anymore. Not if this is how it feels.

Lyrics.  

Word Count: 1127.