7.7.02 BATAVIA MUCKDOGS vs AUBURN DOUBLEDAYS
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The stultifying heat of the week had broken, summer’s humid haze replaced
now by hanging smoke drifted down from Canadian forest fires, an otherworldly
overcast that the sun could penetrate, but only just. No shadows, and the
odd sense that if you stood up too quickly you might hit your head on the
sky. Snug, like a dormer. Not altogether unpleasant, either, but it squelched
my hopes of treating our guests from California, a double-shot consisting
of friends Marty and Blair and Franklin and Bree, to one of the painterly
sunsets that marked my visits to Batavia last year.
We sat all of us near the top of the metal bleachers down the first base
line, strategically positioned so as to be equidistant between two of the
gawdawfully loud and overmodulated P.A. speakers they’ve installed here
but have apparently lacked the time or technical savvy to properly dial in.
The effect more closely resembled torture than entertainment, and that was
unfortunate too.
Much of our attention tonight though was devoted to the game within the game.
In this case, I speak not of the contest between pitcher and hitter or manager
and his opposite, but rather, between Marty and a bunch of fourteen-year-olds
hanging out near the see-how-fast-you-can-throw cage. Fueled by a life-long
desire to test himself against the gun, my exceptionally fit and athletic
old friend sat through only a couple innings before he could no longer stand
it. Taking up the gauntlet on behalf of all us old folks, he joined the gaggle
of adolescents standing around the cage competing for the attention of a group
of their female counterparts.
Whole essays, novels, poems, songs, and anthropological studies could be
written about the achingly revealing and beautifully nuanced behaviors on
display beneath us, as the distinctive rituals of summertime preteen romance
played themselves out in giggles, asides, preening poses and vulnerable glances.
We watched amused, amazed, fascinated, parsing out the dynamics of the group,
the roles played by each of the players, the cool guy, the dorky guy, the
girl who thinks she’s cool, the girl who’s the coolest of the bunch but doesn’t
yet realize it.
Marty paid no attention. He was on a mission. He handed the kid a buck, collected
himself, stepped to the line, reared back and fired. Fifty-three miles per
hour. Again. Another 53. Frustrated now, straining, hurling, his final pitch:
53.
I thought they were playing him. Disbelieving, Marty entreated the kid running
the booth to toss a couple so he could verify that the gun was working right.
The skinny freshman fired a bullet at the canvas, missing the illustrated
strike zone by a mile, but no matter. Seventy.
Marty produced another dollar. Another 53. Then, a breakthrough. Fifty-six. He’d top out at 58 later, after a break of a few innings had proved insufficient to cure him of the bug, but was destined to go home without achieving his baseline goal of cracking 60. Me, I was content to let Marty keep the spotlight to himself, though I have to say, all kidding aside, I’m pretty sure I could throw harder than 60 mph. Even with my scrawny, untoned limbs. You weren’t getting your body into it, man. You were holding back. Next time I’m down there I’ll test my hypothesis. Five bucks says I break 60. Seriously.
FINAL SCORE: DOUBLEDAYS 2, MUCKDOGS 0
LIFE DURING WARTIME: No, really, go ahead, strike. It’ll be great. I can’t wait.