The Rain
Had this been late April, we would have been sitting back in our locker rooms, the TV sets on and competing varieties of loud, pulsating music would have vied for our attention as we got out of our rain-soaked uniforms and prepared for a make-up doubleheader.
But this was late October and the umps were under a lot of pressure. A rain delay now, in the bottom of the fifteenth inning of the seventh game of the World Series, would cause a lot of problems for a lot of people. Major League baseball had a lot invested in this event, possibly the largest television audience in the history of an ailing sport. The TV network had a schedule to meet and advertisers to please.
I allow myself to think of all of this as I swing the weighted bat in the on-deck circle adjacent to my team's dugout. I can barely see the Yankee leftfielder through the glare of driving sheets of water passing in front of massive lights. I realize a crack of thunder would change everything. They would be forced to stop the game rather than risk having lightning electrocute a player on international television.
SCHWACK!
For a moment I was afraid that was exactly what happened. Then with relief and elation I realized the sound came from the bat of catcher and number eight hitter Spokey Smothers. I cheered as he rounded first and made it into second with a stand-up double.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Your Attention Please," the voice of public address announcer Mildred Pierce had a strange echo as it overpowered the sound of the rain hitting the top of the dugout. "Batting For The Pitcher, Pinch Hitter Larry Micklewood!"
Ever since little league, when it was only Dad and Uncle Franky in the stands, as soon as it was my turn to bat, I entered that other world. It was as if I had stepped out of the consensus reality and through a strange portal into another dimension. The silence would overwhelm me. I literally could not hear, nor was I in any way aware of the 60,000 screaming people in the stands, the 1.23 billion watching on worldwide television or Uncle Franky shouting "Attaboy, Larry."
In ways I could never explain to either of my wives, there is nothing in the world more intimate than the batter's box. They could never do anything in bed that could approach that moment standing in the box, digging your cleats into teh dirt until they supported you just right, and then turned your attention to the face, no the eyes of the pitcher standing 66 feet away from you. That man wishes nothing good for you and he's holding a hard weapon he will hurl at you at unbelievable speeds. Still no matter how much you want to beat him, you have to respect him.
That night I stood in that zone and stared at Butch Mukayhee, the Yankees feared closer. Rain drops dripped from the brim of his blue cap, making it harder to see him and understand his intentions. For a moment my resolve broke. I reached up my right hand in front of the umpire and called "TIME!"
I placed my right foot back into the batters box. I realized then what had interrupted my focus. It was the dirt in the batters box that was quickly turning to mud. A hitter must have perfect balance and that starts with a feeling of being comfortably anchored in the ground. I stepped back out of the box, then used the tip of my bat to wipe some of the freestanding water from the hole my foot had just left.
Finally in position and ready for the first pitch, the ball comes in low and outside. I fiinch but restrain myself as the ball's rotation takes it out of the strike zone. I look down the third base line at Frenchy Frye, the seemingly 87-year third base coach. Someone who didn't know better might assume he had Parkinsons, but Frenchy’s twitches and gestures were all designed to cover up the one important movement that would signal the play. In this case, just swing away.
Just beyond Mukayhee, I could see Spokey taking a lead-off from second.
"One and Oh, One Out, Play smart, Larry."
My own voice or was it really Uncle Franky’s in my head almost startled me as it interrupted the complete silence I still felt.
Concentrate on the pitch. A fastball coming in the high-90's. By the time I realize I would be late on the pitch, it was past me. Called strike. One and One.
The umpire exchanges the ball for a dry one that he's kept wrapped in a white towel inside his small black pouch. I looked back at Frenchy. Slap to the face, pick at the pants, point at the nose, tug on the ear, and surprising me, two tugs on the brim of his cap. That meant Spokey was going to try to get a jump on the pitch and I was to try to slap it to right, at the least moving him up to third and at most a hit and run that would score a run. That's the way I thought of it. I suppose somewhere in the back of my mind I knew scoring a run would mean we were world champions and I would be on a Wheaties box. But honestly at the time that's not where my mind was at.
I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the pitch. It was a slider that was supposed to hook outside at the last minute. Instead it sat there right in the middle of the plate, looking to me as big as a grapefruit. I did what I've done since Uncle Franky first taught me how. I put pressure on my back leg then rotated my body forward putting as much torque as possible on the bat. I felt that microsecond of exultation when the sweet spot of the bat hit the ball. I knew it wasn't out of the park. I knew I had to run. I sensed Spokey in my peripheral vision sprinting towards third. I jogged towards first knowing that if Spokey scored the game was over. Then the first sound hit my conscious mind since I entered the batters box. It was one of those sounds where you assume the barometric pressure has just dropped as everyone in the stadium sucked in their breath. I looked at third base where Spokey had tripped and fallen in a huge puddle of standing water. Shortstop Rene Lesveque grabbed the ball from the left fielder and tagged Spokey out.
Two out and I was on first. Being a runner on first base is the exact opposite of being a batter. There is no intimacy. There's a first base coach whose only job is to tell you not to fuck up. There's a first baseman who acts like your friend but is trying to mess with your mind. And there's the drama at the plate that requires your full attention.
I took a modest lead. I have decent speed but in this situation I'm not running. Sure, I kept on eye on Frenchy but I knew the play.
Muckayhee took our leadoff batter Estaban Queso to a full-count. Now I and everyone else knows I have to run with two outs. The pitcher stares at me, and then whips a throw to first base. I jump back, landing in a pool of cold rain water, and reach for the bag. Safe. The pitcher stared again at Queso, then brought his motion to a rest. Now there was rain pouring off Muckayhee's bushy red mustache.
Suddenly he turned and pitched to Estaban who hit a steaming line drive into the gap. I'm off towards second, then look up at Frenchie who is waving his arms in circles. Run, Run, Run. But be smart, Larry, Uncle Franky's voice echoes in my head, so I look down between second and third and see the puddles that tripped up Spokey. I avoid them and keep running. Now I feel like I'm in a hurricane, the fierce rains, the wind whipping from the first base side directly in my face. I hear everything, the sound of the ball hitting the relay man's glove, the crowd shouting, the rain pounding on the dugout roof but mostly I hear Uncle Franky saying run and dive arms outstretched towards that home plate.
But unlike the old sandlot which was hard and dusty and would leave huge bruises on you until you learned to land just right, Pittsburgh stadium's dirt had endured days of heavy rains and a season of hopes and dreams. So you couldn't call what I did sliding. As one sportswriter later put it, it was more like wallowing in the mud at Woodstock Four. I came to a sudden stop a foot and a half short of the plate. I could hear the ball hit the catcher's mitt with a thud. There was no time to think. There was no time for dignity. There was only time to reach out my hand, feel the rough plastic surface, experience the rain soaking every inch of my body, and hear the most blessed word in the history of human creation.
SAFE!
Comments