Baseball

Its June, 1992 and the sun is beating down on the back of my neck and I wish it would duck behind a cloud just for a few minutes to take away the heat. I lean in and precisely but without thought place one foot before the other methodically and slowly move toward the edge of where the brickdust and grass meet in a perfectly groomed seam. My hands drop from in front of my chest to my sides and stay about shoulder width apart- I am hunched over slightly and standing on the balls and toes of my feet with my heels raised- my eyes are wide open and I feel like a predator about to pounce. I move fluidly, leaning from one side to the other I make my decision. I read my prey and predict its likely path. It takes merely a second for the ball to travel the 60 feet to the plate and as the bat hits the ball squarely, my decision was correct. I lean to my left and dig my toes in as hard as I can. It feels like slow motion as I push and dig, and try to make my self taller and longer as I lean over moving as quickly as I can, but it feels slow. I stretch and push trying to find more. I turn my shoulders toward second base and dig my elbows down as I give up on keeping square to the batter and try to get there first then I will re-align with the batter and the ball. I feel like a bull in a ring, head down, blowing hot air out my nostrils, heading toward the Matador. I swing my left arm forward, I reach out as far as I can, my glove outstretched, barely attached to my hand but perfectly placed and capable of stopping the speedy prey as it tries to evade my deadly grasp. My body is in slow motion still but I'm flying- literally flying, my body is outstretched and 3 feet above the dust, I turn my head toward home plate and the direction of the ball. The ball bolts past the pitchers right side just above his hip and is coming at me. I am almost there, I stretch my last inch, the glove slides down the length of my sweat covered hand and is out on my fingers. I land hard, pounded to the ground with a heavy thud, I slide forward and stop a few feet from second base. I pull my self up to my knees and sit and watch our second baseman Kevin step toward centerfield and take the throw back into second base, he turns and checks the runner back to first, then tosses the ball back to the mound. I look downward, sweat drips into my eye and I wipe it away with my glove. I feel the brick dust grate against my eyelid. My face is now smeared with red dirt. I spit dirt from my mouth and lean forward, placing my hand down for balance, I right myself and walk back to my post at the deep end of the infield between second and third base. As I walk back to position, I see Tom at third base, and shrug my shoulders, giving him the the universal "Oh Well....".
"Nice hustle" he says, "That was a shot!". I rolled my eyes and said "Yeah.... thanks".

I know better than to dwell on plays like that in the field, but its hard to let go. I knew if I had been 1% more decisive I could have stopped that ball. I turned toward home and saw a left-handed batter step into the box. I had seen him hit before and knew he had very fast hands. I slid a few steps toward second base, knowing the ball would go up the right side of the infield and I would need to cover second to turn the double play. I looked up into the sky. The sun was warm on my face, and with my eyes closed it was bright and white. I knew when I opened them it would take a second to re-adjust. The sweat dripped down my face again. I smelled the dirt on the bottom of the bill of my hat from where my fingers stain it with dirt and sweat. I reach up with my glove and cover my mouth for a second and inhale. I inhale deeply and I go back in time. The smell of the glove leather and the sweat and the brickdust shoot me back in time. Suddenly I am not 25 years old standing on a perfectly manicured field. I am not standing at shortstop. I am not wearing a brand new, brightly colored, perfectly fitted uniform. Its hot, still so hot and even more uncomfortable. Its June, 1975 and I am small and the field seems so big. The bases are so far apart. The grass is brownish, not so green at all. Its dry and crunches when I walk on it. The infield is dirt and gravel, its not soft, red brickdust. I feel sluggish and heavy under the weight of the heavy wool uniform that drapes me like a cloak. I am layered with a longsleeved shirt that is white with yellow sleeves that go down past my elbows, almost to my wrists. I wear a heavy grey wool uniform shirt over the top of the sleeves and it's too big for me as well. My pants are wool, and heavy and too long. They are so long that the yellow stirrup socks are barely visible below the hem above my ankle. My head feels heavy from the helmet that is so big that the bill keeps dropping into my eyes. I push it up, but only far enough to see the pitchers mound. If I push the bill higher the sun will blind me. I smell the dirt and the wool and dry grass. Its slow and quiet and hot. I dont know if its fun... I think it is. I look up and the pitch comes toward me. The bat feels so heavy as it drops from my shoulder and I try to keep it parallel with the dirt below. The pitcher manages to hit my bat with the ball as opposed to me hitting the ball with the bat and it rolls out toward second base. I run hard, digging my toes in as I try to see the baseline below the helmet flopping around my head. The bill drops down and I can only see the chalk baseline and the pale gray dirt below my feet. I feel like I am in slow motion and I run hard. I reach the base and see the first basemans leg and his foot on the bag.I hear the pop of the ball into his glove. I step across the bag and continue for a few steps further and turn around and jog back to the dugout.

As I walk back into the dugout I drop the helmet onto the ground with the others and look for my hat and glove. I find a spot to sit down. Nobody says anything. Its so hot and nobody wants to talk. I sit alone and look behind me. My Dad is there, he looks and gives me a small grin and tilts his head to the side as if to say You'll get em next time. "Nice hustle kid-o" he says, "That was a shot".
"Thanks" I said.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, place my hands on the bench on either side of my legs and lean forward. I look down and swing my legs slowly, my cleats just above the ground as they glide back and forth. I feel okay now.

I move my gaze upward from the ground and I am 25 again. I look around at the rest of the team. They have all been playing as long as me, since we were 6 years old. Many of these guys have played professional ball. Several played in the Majors. Some just for a game, some for a full season or two. Some were so close to the dream and had it pulled away because of an untimely injury. Some couldnt handle the stress and the pressure. I glanced around the infield and we were all standing, poised, looking at home plate, waiting for the pitch. We all look like little kids. This game is a constant. It never changes. Once you learn the basics of the game, you can spend 30 years honing skills and perfecting the particulars of your swing or your position play, but the game is a constant. There is a comfort that comes from that.

I look to my right toward third base and see the big concrete dugout that sits half buried below the playing field and the grandstands behind it. I see a little kid leaning over the top of the dugout. He has a hat on and his glove on his hand. He squints his eyes in the sunlight as he looks over at me and smiles and give me a thumbs up. I nod to him and smile back as if to say thanks.

That boys approval at my effort, was the same as I sought from my Dad when I was a boy. I looked back toward home plate and felt the sun beat down on the back of my neck. It was hot and dusty and my eyes stung from the dirt and the sweat. It was a good day to play baseball.

-Mark Sollauer