The bat’s too heavy. It’s a thick-handled #5 Mickey Mantle rather than my lean #4 Johnny Bench, which I must have split the week before, and its leaden weight deadens my muscles, aggravates the soreness of my joints. Following a few clumsy swings, I drape the bat over my shoulders like a yoke and approach the plate, eyes on the turf. Gripping the bat at the base of the handle, I’m unable to control its balance, the tip falling to the ground with a thud. I shorten my grip and with difficulty lift the bat to my shoulder, and as I step into the box I look up to find playing the field against me the entire army of the People’s Republic of China equipped with mitts the size of peach baskets.
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The bat’s too heavy. It’s a thick-handled #5 Mickey Mantle rather than my lean #4 Johnny Bench, which I must have split the week before, and its leaden weight deadens my muscles, aggravates the soreness of my joints. Following a few clumsy swings, I drape the bat over my shoulders like a yoke and approach the plate, eyes on the turf. Gripping the bat at the base of the handle, I’m unable to control its balance, the tip falling to the ground with a thud. I shorten my grip and with difficulty lift the bat to my shoulder, and as I step into the box I look up to find playing the field against me the entire army of the People’s Republic of China equipped with mitts the size of peach baskets. I step aside to wipe the sweat from my hands, then, gathering all my strength, take one last, ferocious swing. The left side of the infield–three hundred thousand strong–retreats a pace, and I return to the plate. The first pitch arches toward me, soft and feathery like a dove, and as if it were indeed a fragile creature buoyed by the air, I tap it lightly across the seams. It dribbles slowly down the third base line, just fair, and the Chinese army falls all over itself as I leg it out to first, safe.
I’ll never get my chance to bat. I feel strong, and despite my countless practice swings my stroke remains clean and smooth, sharp as a butcher’s knife. But I was one of the last chosen, and I’ve lost track of the number of outs, the number of runs across, and the number of batters in the lineup ahead of me. When I ask for the inning or the score, the captain informs me it’s still the first quarter and we’re only a touchdown behind, but I know that no matter how many quarters we play, no matter how many touchdowns we score, I’ll never get a chance to bat.
The heavy ball: often in tandem with the receding infielder; “Whassamatter? Why donchya throw it? Canchya reach me? Throw it! Throw it!”
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/John Sundlof.
