If Only

A batboy's world becomes more than he bargained for..

If Only

“So, Jason,” said the tv announcer, shaking his hand, “I understand that you’re our new batboy this year. Good luck.”

“Relax kid,” added the radio guy, patting him on his shoulder, walking by, “you’ll do fine.”

At the press box entrance, the three went their separate ways. The tv guy went left, climbing the short narrow stairway to his assigned booth. His on- air partner was already reviewing the starting line- up. The radio guy went right, disappearing into a cramped booth.

Checking his schedule on his phone, Jason went straight to the laundry room. There, he removed uniforms from last night’s game from the dryers. He dropped them into a bin. He then sorted them, in order, lowest number first, for tonight’s game.

The word was already out that this kid had a thing for numbers.

Why maybe, they told him in the interview, he’d become a Certified Public Accountant someday. Maybe, Jason daydreamed, he’d become an owner himself.

Someday.

And someday he wouldn’t be just a batboy.

But not today.

He entered the locker-room. The shower stalls, cleaned the night before, still had a lingering, fresh, minty scent in the air.
Turning the corner, Jason saw him. Sitting slumped over, at the end of the row, was the five-year veteran, his eyes focused on his I-pad. He kept re-playing his last at-bat, from the final play-off game the year before, over and over again.

He’d gone 0 for 4 in last year’s season-ending game. Even in the off-season, he couldn’t let it go. From his brown, bushy head, a thin streak of grey at the temples was marching in. In the off-season, the brass upstairs finally agreed to give him another shot.

“He’ll come out of it,” the hitting coach said, looking over his at-bat chart. “But he’s got to do it fast. Maybe change the grip on his bat, widen his stance, work the count.”

“Because, if he doesn’t figure it out,” the coach said, lowering his voice, “he’s gonna’ get a bus ticket back down to Triple A.”

Why, if I had even a tenth of the talent that guy has, I wouldn’t be-

“Hi Jason.” He heard her high-pitched, sing-song voice, floating in over his left shoulder.

Turning around, he caught just a glimpse of her. Chelsey Rigney, 23, had already strolled past him, with the dull-grey stadium security door slamming behind her.

Is that the girl? Is she the one? Is she the one Jason had already heard about in the break room? The one who was a better-than-average shortstop on her high school softball team?

How did she know who I was already? I just got here!

If only I was five years older, Jason, told himself. Yeah, if only I was five years older…

The five-year veteran, not looking up, from his I-pad, grinned. Married, with three kids, the scene reminded him of the real world outside of baseball, if only for a moment.

Minutes later, Chelsey, with glove in hand, headed out, carrying her folding chair, down the left-field foul line.

“Wait up a sec Chelsey,” said Meredith, the first base line ball girl, walking next to her, her voice dropping, “I’ve got something to ask you.”
She had that trouble-maker look in her eyes.

“Did you know,” she said, grinning, “that I saw that new batboy checking you out?”

“Meredith please,” said Chelsey, blushing, “he’s just a kid.”

“So, you wouldn’t be just a little bit interested?”

“Sure, “Chelsey said, with the pair going their separate ways at home plate, “if I was only five years younger maybe.”

Jason placed each uniform on the assigned hanger. As a die-hard fan, he felt that he already knew the personality behind each number.
Take number 17, at short-stop, for instance. This guy, he plays the game with passion. Runs every routine ground ball to first out, no matter what.

He’s a gamer.

Number 41, a left fielder from Cuba, struggling to learn English. He’s gone at season’s end, the rumor is, if he doesn’t start producing.

And then there’s number 67.

If this aging pitcher doesn’t get his curve ball down and in to left-handed hitters, he’s going to be trade bait too.
And, to a man, they all worry about that one guy no one knows. He’s a younger guy, busting his butt down there in triple AAA ball right now.

He’s the guy that they all fear.

He’s the guy who’s his biding his time, just waiting to take someone’s place.

After placing the last uniform on its’ hanger, Jason moved on to the fresh towels. He folded them all the same way. He then stacked them on labeled shelves of the players lockers.

“Do it right the first time,” the manager told him earlier, on his first day.

“See, these guys are big on routine. In a long season, when things are even a little bit different,” he said, “they can get bent out of shape real quick.”

Next came the batting helmets.

From last night’s game, they were stacked high, in a bin. He polished them, one by one, to a glossy shine.
He placed elbow and shin guards, in every player’s bin. He then added batting gloves. Next came the foam “oven mitts”.

Nothing worse than a runner, having hit safely, standing on first base without one. Sliding in at second base, those hands have to be protected.

He then moved on to the bats. Turning them over carefully in his hands, he wiped off any signs of dirt, or pine tar.
The mid-afternoon sun was now slicing through like a butter knife. It sent streaks of sunlight through the scattered, stray clouds. A strong wind had all of the flags flying stiff, rippling in the steady breeze.

“It’s hittin’ weather tonight,” said Irvin, the balding groundskeeper, passing by the home team dugout.

Cream-colored chalk, came spraying out evenly from beneath Irvin’s cart. Resembling baby powder, it landed, twirling and swirling, settling gently down the first-base line.

Next, Jason filled the three water coolers in the dugout. Some games the players drained all three before the seventh inning stretch.
Then, he placed a variety of sunflower seeds, on a cluttered shelf, in the dugout.

Every player, Jason was told, have their own favorite flavor. And who knew that sunflower seeds came in like, a gazillion different flavors?
And they were a must in the bullpen.

“Kid,” one veteran informed him, walking out, spraying seeds from the corner of his mouth, “let me put to you this way,” he said. “We’ve got time on our hands out there, okay?”

“Now, every day we’re paid to put out fires that starts out there on the mound. So yeah, we’re edgy most of the time. So, never, make that ever, run out of sunflower seeds.”

The ground crew drug the infield, spraying a fine mist of water, settling the dust. The bases were then put down, under the watchful eyes of the third and first base umpires.

Behind the mound, the umpires gathered, holding their own staff meeting at second base, looking upward.

“We just might get this one in,” said the shorter one. “If it goes extra innings, forget about it.”

“Hope so,” said the other umpire. “I’m flying out to Cincinnati after this,” he said, walking away.

“Okay Jason,” said the home plate umpire, all business, strolling out behind home plate, “ready to go?”

“Yes sir,” he said. He had just finished stocking more than eight dozen baseballs in the dugout, “ready to go.”

Then the umpire reminded him, “we start every half-inning with a new baseball. And if one touches the dirt, I toss it. Got it?”
“Got it.”

Following the Star-Spangled Banner, sung by a girl with a so-so voice, Jason took his position, on the top step of the dugout.

Placing both hands over his right knee, he waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

For nine innings he was running, jogging, everywhere. He picked up tossed, broken bats. He ran out, bringing back elbow, shin guards, and batting gloves when players reached first base. He also brought out those oven mitts.

Foul balls also got his attention.

Especially the ones that went screaming down the third base line. Then Chelsey leaped off of her folding chair, fielding it cleanly with her glove.

Then it was decision time.

Sometimes she’d hand the baseball to someone in the front row. Sometimes she’d turn around tossing it back high, into a few rows up.
Following the game, an 8-7 season-opening loss, the dugout emptied quickly.

Jason began sweeping up the endless sea of sunflower seeds covering the floor. In the locker room, he scraped dried dirt from the players’ cleats. Then, he hung up the washed uniforms to dry overnight.

His day was done. Changing back into his street clothes, he went out to the nearly deserted parking lot.

A late model car pulled up near the main ticket window .Chelsey walked out, waving to the car until it stopped. Opening the passenger door, she got in.

Watching it pull away, Jason kept walking a straight line to his car.

Then, something strange happened.

A car went to the end of the parking lot, made a U-turn, and then pulled up beside him. Chelsey waved him over to her passenger’s side window.

“I hear that you’re studying to become an accountant.”

“Yeah,” was all that he could say.

“Cool,” Chelsey said. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll own your own baseball team someday.”

Her boyfriend’s eyes looked away, his fingers drumming on top of the tan steering wheel.

“I’m starting nursing school next year,” she said, her violet eyes locked on him, “and I can’t wait.”

“See you,” Chelsey said, smiling, ending the conversation. With that, her window went up, as the car sped out of the parking lot.

Starting his own car, and before pulling away, Jason found himself thinking just one thing.

If I was only five years older.

If only…

The End