C 13 January 2004 – Peter Whittaker

The pavement was crowded but they stepped aside as I pushed my way through. Shops and offices to the left, coffee houses on the right; the diamond was laid out at the next intersection. I could see the team. We were up to bat. Traffic was held up as Terry flexed his muscles and swung. His swing was weak; the ball limped over to a young muscular short stop who picked it up swiftly, cleanly, and with the flick of his wrist flung it across to first base. The ball bounced squarely in the middle of the bag without touching a human and sped away, ‘Yer out!’ My mouth opened wide. ‘What!’ I objected. ‘Yer out!’ the umpire shouted and scowled at me. ‘Can’t be,’ I screamed back racing up to home plate. Breast to breast we stood; the umpire stuck his chest pad out and glared at me, ‘Yer out!’ ‘But there was no one on the base!’ His eyes bore into me, ‘Play ball,’ he said menacingly!’

Frank stepped into the batter’s box; bags under his eyes revealed an early morning he’d had the night before; he licked his lips with a piebald nicotine-stained tongue. On the mound, the pitcher wound up wildly then threw a sucker ball. I watched it rise as it came in towards home plate, ‘Let it go, Frank,’ I yelled; but he chose to ignore me. His swing was a little late, slow; lazy. He caught the ball at the base, cracking the seam and popping it straight up over his head, ‘Mine!’ The catcher had his mask off; with a sinister grin, steady glove, plucked the ball out of the air. ‘Two down, one to go!’

My efforts rushing along the pavement trying to lift their spirits was like trying to light a bush fire using a bucket full of water and a box of wet matches! Above me the traffic lights changed, “Play ball!”

Johnny, who liked to be known as Ace, smacked the ball hard. What happened then … I … the ball was blocked by three infielders practically standing on the home plate. It hit the glove of the first, a third baseman, and shot straight up into the air. Number two, the catcher, was underneath but too far back. He managed to flick the ball, as it caught the edge of his glove, towards the pitcher. The pitcher ran, dived, and safely caught the ball before it could touch the ground, ‘Yer out!’ cried the umpire, ‘Three out!’

A cold sweat shot through my body, first innings down and we hadn’t even looked like getting a player on base! ‘Quick change over please; my daughter’s getting married at one; I need to be there!’ For inspiration I punched the side of my head; my foot slipped; I fell forward; a bus was coming round the corner; I screamed, woke up and found the electric blanket on high.

The Practice

I was self appointed coach and manager to the Stealers, a seventh grade softball team, a joke! Last in the league; never won a game; not serious players. They played to enjoy the social life: beer; women; the pool hall; long drinking sessions at night. Mind you, I loved the players, but as a team … groan!

I surveyed the diamond. Two infielders were sitting between second and third sharing a lighted something I didn’t really want to get too close too. Terry, standing not too far from second base, encouraged by Frank on first base, was doing a line with Louise in right outfield. Louise was the only girl in the team. She played every Saturday because we were always one short. At the home plate, Ginger, the batter, Kevin, the pitcher and Storm, the catcher had been arguing over Ginger’s third strike for the past fifteen minutes. Ginger played centre outfield and left was covered by Ace. Ace lived in a world of his own, fighting the bloody Baron in a Sopworth Camel over the green fields of Germany during the First World War

On this particular night, I noticed a guy, sitting on the park bench, watching us. A big guy; definitely at home with a bag of doughnuts and a two litre of coke; reminded me very much of John Candy. Occasionally the team sent some smart remark in his direction which he must have heard but chose to ignore. Guess he couldn’t be any worse than what we had, so, as self-appointed coach and manager, I approached him, “Would you like to join us?” with a quick flick of his eyebrows he accepted but didn’t move, “What position do you usually play?”

His eyes came round and stared at me; they were very small, sharp. He had a friendly face; short hair, “Can I bat?” his voice was very polite, humble.

“Hey, Frank,” I called to first base. “What’s your name?” I asked the stranger.

“You can call me Fattie. It’s okay. Most people do anyway, why not make it legit!”

“Sort out a couple of good bats for Fattie, he wants to try out.” The team burst out laughing, “Sorry,” I apologised.

“It’s not a problem.” He ambled over towards Frank who was rummaging through the bat bag; weighed the two bats handed to him, swung each in a circle; chose one, “Thanks,” then stood at the plate scanning the outfield, “Tell those guys to move back 3 or 4 metres towards the trees,” they grumbled, “A little further,” I yelled again. The other players, without moving, watched. Fattie stood there chewing gum; his eyes summing up the field.

Terry, still chatting up Louise, had his back to the home plate. Kevin sent Fattie an easy ball, a good pitch, aimed at Fattie’s bat. Storm reached out to draw in the ball; it was almost in his glove when the bat swept kindly by and lobbed it high into the air. Louise, deep in conversation with Terry, wasn’t watching. The ball suddenly dropped into her animated glove; she let out a squeal; the glove fell from her hand onto the ground with the ball still safely snuggled into its pocket. In a state of shock she picked the glove up and returned the ball to Kevin. Silently, the team scrambled into position. For the first time since …, the team were focused.

“Now give me one of your wickedest pitches,” Fattie’s words curved into a smile as Kevin delivered. Nobody saw the bat move. The ball was pummelled out of its jacket as, stunned, they watched it disappear over the heads of the outfield and into the trees beyond for a home run. Excitement, enthusiasm, applause, motivation, took off like a virus and quickly spread through the team; Fattie was now a knight in shining armour ready to devour the seventh grade softball world with his valiant squires – The Stealers!

Slowly he put the bat down; walked to the mound, took over ball and glove. As he wound up and sent the ball into Storm to warm-up he called, “Give me your three best batters.” The team guffawed.

“Frank, Terry, Ace.”

Fattie gently chewed his gum, “I’m gonna give you something you can hit. Don’t try to kill it. Just gently pop it over my head between first and second base. Not too hard, not too high.” All arguments forgotten; the curly cigarette stomped out; and even Terry forgot Louise as Frank hit the ball. Now Frank’s been known to hit the ball, but usually, never had the slightest idea of where it might go; to see him place it exactly where Fattie wanted it, was amazing. The team cheered.

“Okay, Second base move down towards first base; first base come up a little closer to second. Now, Frank, I want you to hit a ground ball to the same spot but don’t let those guys get it; right!”

“Right!” This time it took a few more shots but eventually Frank managed to get one passed and the whole team let out a whoop!

“Let’s try a bunt. Straight along the third base line, Right!

Right! Frank was getting the idea.

They practised until all three batters could do all three strokes on demand. “Now we gotta have a code. If I come by the plate and tell you to bunt, what do you do?”

Terry’s earnest hand shot up. “Hit it straight along the third base line, too fast for the catcher but slow enough to bring third off his base.”

“Excellent, but wrong; that’s what you do when I call for a ground ball.”

“Ground it out between first and second.”

“Good call, Louise, but wrong again, that’s what you do when I tell you to hit it hard over second base.”

“Then it has to be, lob it over the heads of first and second.”

“That’s it, Ginger, and the reason we do this is because of the Catcher’s ears.” They all stared in silence waiting, like the disciples of Jesus, for an explanation. “By giving the wrong information, the catcher will signal the pitcher; the pitcher will signal the baseman; they’ll be waiting for the wrong stroke; they’ll give you the wrong pitch. You’re advantage! All clear!”

“All clear!” There was unanimity in their reply and a buzz of excitement in the air as they broke off and headed for home.

“Till Saturday!”

“Saturday,” and they threw two fingers in the air as a victory salute!


The game

Terry was top of the batting order. He stepped up with Fattie’s instructions rumbling around in his head. Usually cocky and giving the other team as much as he got, today he was quiet, serious. He limbered up with the bat then stepped up to the plate. “Play Ball” the umpire yelled in his ear. Terry felt like giving a wise crack but he had to concentrate. ‘Let the first one go’, Fattie had said, ‘The pitcher will throw you a ball.’ ”Ball” ‘The second one is most likely a strike but no matter how tempting just let it fly past the plate and ‘don’t do nothin’.’ “Strike, one and one,” the umpire stuck two chubby fists, with a finger extended on each one, into the air. The other team were getting really cocky. ‘Now you’re ready, Terry, this is your big moment. The pitch will be slow; straight over the plate; slightly rising. Aim a little bit high and power that ball with all your might over the outstretched glove of second base; directly above his head and just out of his reach!’

The ball came in as Fattie had described; Terry couldn’t believe it; but he wasn’t given too much time to think, ‘Not too fast, not too soon,’ he recalled to himself; then swung. The ball connected solidly. As he strode down towards first base he had time to watch the astonished face of the second baseman, shirt flapping in the breeze, white midriff naked, jump in the air trying to catch the soaring ball as it swept past just five centimetres out of his reach. It was well short of the outfield and Terry, safe at first, turned, but Fattie’s words thundered into his mind, ‘One base, no risks, no stealing; just make sure of the one base.’

Frank had warmed up and was now at the plate. The pitcher, a short stocky character, gave him a first pitch he wanted. The ball came in fast, just outside the outside corner of the plate. His bat was down on it with the power of a tsunami wave, almost smacking the innocent ball out of its jacket and he was on his way. Both second and first base dived; sprawled; the ball hurtled between them; Terry danced over their outstretched bodies and was safe on two.

Their coach, a red faced, beer bellied man, hoisted his fingers up in the shape of a T, time out. Everybody relaxed. Agitation pouring from his brow he sprinted over to the mound; covering his mouth with both hands he whispered in the pitcher’s ear; then second base and first were moved closer together; the short stop shifted to cover second base. “Play ball” shouted the umpire from behind his large black mask. “Any base but home, gets you the out”, said the coach, holding his toupee as he rushed back to the sideline, “Come on you guys, we need an out; O-U-T, out!”

Ace was up to bat. He stepped into the batter’s box with the confidence of an American fighter pilot. “Play ball!” He’d watched the World Series on satellite TV, he felt cool. “Strike” “Lucky, lucky!” He was short but solid. “Ball – one and one” The red faced man objected; the umpire’s mask shook, “Play ball!” It was wide, “Ball – one and two” In came the pitch again, it curved in towards the plate. Ace swung hard but deliberately swung his bat low. ‘If you don’t like it, strike wildly but whatever you do, don’t hit it!’ Bat and ball swished past each other like two planes flying at different altitudes, “Strike – two and two.” ‘On the full count (two and three) you’re dead if you fail the bunt. Hit out!’ When the ball came in it was a little too high but Ace was determined; at the last moment he slid his hand down to the end of the bat, stepped forward and bunted. The ball, without any power at all, headed towards third base.

The third baseman was new, nervous. He stood staring at the ball as it trickled slowly in his direction praying it would go foul. Instinct told him, ‘Stay put!’ But nobody else moved. Terry was thundering down the diamond towards him; Frank was halfway to second; Ace was moving towards first; everybody was yelling; something had to be done; the seconds moved in slow drops of perspiration.

On a sudden impulse he ran, abandoning his base, to field the ball. He was there; scooped it up; pivoted, hoping to get the double but … third base was deserted! Terry would be there before any of his fielders. The easy out! He spun again; fired the ball but Ace’s foot touched the pad as the “Thwack!” of the ball pounded into the first baseman’s glove. Standing a few feet back from the diamond the thin line of Stealers supporters, a couple of girl friends, one set of parents and two or three friends, went wild with excitement. Then the umpire, waving his hands back and forth at waist level, called, ‘Safe all round’, music to my ears.

We had loaded bases; Fattie was warming up; suddenly the opposition’s jeering started in earnest; he stepped into the batter’s box. Down on the mound, their pitcher started to rub his ear; rolled the ball down the seam of his black pants; his eyes narrowed. Fattie held his glance as the first missile closed in. It flew into the catcher’s mitt. “Ball one!” Fattie stepped out and back into the batter’s box. “Ball two!” The ball was back in the pitcher’s glove and Fattie was at the plate. “Ball three!”

“One more, champ, one more,” Fattie spoke with a low, friendly tone, “and thanks to you we’re on the board!” The words worked their magic and the pitcher, seething with rage, sent a white knuckle-fisted slug straight down the pitch at a fearsome pace. It couldn’t have been straighter; it powered down towards Fattie who hadn’t moved. The catcher, crouched on his haunches, umpire’s head on his shoulder, readied himself. His arm extended expecting the thud of the ball to safely twist into the hollow of his oversized glove. Instead his face caught the wind of Fattie’s bat as it came out of nowhere to ripple the laces of his glove and power that soft white ball up into the air and out of the park.

Hushed silence; “Home run!” whispered the umpire. “Shit!” cried the catcher. The pitcher fell backwards watching it circumnavigate his mound and orbit out of the park. “Take your time fellas; don’t forget to touch every base!” and we were four runs up at the bottom of the first innings!

With the element of surprise gone; the opposition, top team in the grade, settled down and clawed their way back to save face with a 9-8 victory – but … they were the top team and we knew, we were smokin’.

The ending

We were the seventh grade champions that year; no-one could touch us. With Fattie as our coach, captain, mentor our slack practices once a week had turned into powerhouse strategy meetings held almost every night. By the end of the season, the team had given up most of their vices and become real pros. The strange thing was, their attitude on the ball park permeated through into their work and their social life. Terry didn’t have to chase the girls, they chased him; Frank was promoted to supervisor; Louise was interviewed on the telly and all her friends were jealous; Ace gave up dreaming.

The team never made it through to the next grade. Terry was head hunted by Poneke, the top team in the first division; Frank and Ace went on to get places in second division teams; and the other players, including Louise, were snapped up by third and fourth division.

Fattie? Fattie was a professional ball player from Chicago on vacation here. He loved his summer; sorry to leave in the end; but he played major league and wasn’t about to miss it. Me? Well, I’ve got this team; bit like the last one really. I figure, using what I learnt from Fattie … add a bit of this, a bit of that, maybe I too could make a modification to improve somebody’s life, just like he did!



The End

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...