Throwing High Pops - May 1982
It’s after school on a Monday, a bright afternoon in early May. Of course for me, age 42 now, it is no longer “after school”. For me it is “after work” though I presume for many of my contemporaries it is just beyond mid-day. As I have done on occasion in the work world, today I have found a way to leave work early - one of my learned skills as a corporate worker-bee.
The time of year is now well into the baseball season for the two junior high school teams gathered before me. My daughter’s school, the Falcons, is pitted against the Cougars, who now occupy the field, ostensibly warming up.
The Falcons are loosely gathered about their team bench, three twelve -foot board planks along the first baseline. Their coach, a youngish PE-type peers out at the field, toward the opposition, squinting into the afternoon sun. The collection of twelve to thirteen year old boys in his charge squirm on the bench behind him, emitting familiar adolescent banter. Much of their talk is for the benefit of a thin strand of their contemporaries, six in number, standing in a line approximately three paces from the bench. This string of six is of female gender and my daughter is among them.
I catch parts of the girl talk that seem like repeated versions of “No way - Call me tonight,” then “What time?” then “I don’t care.”
As for the Falcons, uniformed in away-gray (they're playing at home) polyester with green script F-A-L-C-O-N-S on their chests, they are, at the moment, neither studying the opposition, nor collecting themselves into a game face mentality. Nor do they mimic big leaguers. Instead they mimic themselves at recess, except for the fact that they are now confined to the bench area by apparent invisible fencing. Their noises seem not so much related to verbs or nouns. Predominate is a sound that I think would be spelled like “Shuuump.” It is often paired with a feigned punch to the eye or a karate-like chop to the neck. The “Shuuump” mixes with bewildering word formations (sometimes) and spasmodic gestures (always).
For example, apparently imitating an opponent during batting practice, one Falcon assumes a batting stance, then suddenly throws up both hands and yells, “Whoa!” Next is a backwards stagger (spasmodic) which prompts sharp laughter from teammates. The demonstrator then recovers from his stagger, pokes jab-like at a nearby mate’s eye and says, “Shuuump!” The mate winces, then breaks into an adolescent strut. And so it goes.
I watch and listen, pretending indifference, which come to think of it is what the Falcons and the string of six are doing as well. The Cougars, in the field, provide background music - timeless sandlot chatter.
Next to the doorway I notice a familiar sight, what I would call an incarnation of myself. It is a small boy pitching a rubber ball against the school wall. I watch, remembering days when I found joy and the best of dreams while throwing a ball against a wall. For the moment I forget about the official game before me and heed a pull to the boy at the wall.
“Let me throw you a high one,” I say, remembering the thrill of chasing a ball that moved against the sky, settling beneath it and then letting it sink into my glove.
“Throw it here,” I say.
The kid flips the ball to me and quickly drops into fielder’s stance - a dog ready to fetch.
“All set?" I say.
He just looks at me, his eyes wide.
Just then the string of six re-emerges from the school. “Dad!” Brett shouts at me.
“What,” I say, ball in hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Playing catch,” I say.
“Dad, that’s Tom’s brother.” That would be Tom, the Falcon.
“Oh yeah,” I say remembering now the last name of my incarnation. “Roger, right?” I say. Roger doesn’t answer. He stays in the wide eye ready stance.
“You’re crazy Dad.” I take it as a compliment, but I know that interacting with "Tom's brother" is a no-no. Regardless, I turn toward Roger, “O.K.!” I say and take one hop and then arching myself backward fling the ball straight up into the air, aiming it as best I can so that it might descend in the general proximity of my ready fielder. I remember my father here - him throwing, and me watching the shrinking ball against the sky delighted and amazed at the same time, at the height of the throw. Then camping under the ball, and aware of the uneven slope of our Cottage Street
Somewhere along the line of time in a boy’s life is a point at which catching a ball in the air becomes easy for one accustomed to such games. As I watch this ball sail skyward I wonder if I have correctly gauged Roger’s place in this baseball skill spectrum. I do not want the ball to hit on his forehead instead of his glove. For that reason I didn’t throw this first ball too high. But Roger catches the ball with ease and so I throw another and another, each higher than before until my arm, at age 42, grows weak.
The fielder however was shows no sign of tiring. On the contrary, he appears even more enthusiastic. Just as I remember it – so well.
I remember too, something else about playing baseball with my father. The game we played was that I would pitch the ball to him and he would tap out flies and grounders in my direction. Always brother John would be in the outfield a few paces behind me. My mother would sit on the back porch steps, a box seat, watching it all and from time to time exclaiming how amazing it was that dad never missed hitting a pitch.
Officially this game had a name. It was called Pepper and big-leaguers played it to warm up before games. But what I remember most about our baseball games was that I never wanted them to end which was the thought that came to mind as I looked at Roger after pitching approximately a dozen high ones for him to field. I could easily have called it quits here, but for the look in Roger’s eye. Let’s just say, I’ve been there. That was the thing I could never understand as a child. Why didn’t my dad want to play baseball every single night - forever? Now of course I know, but back then, no clue.
Anyway, having had enough of throwing high pops, I walk toward Roger and say, “So what’s the game you play against the wall?” Sure as you bet there is a game that Roger plays with the ball and the wall. I’m guessing that it’s his own version of what might be labeled dream-ball, with special rules and all; no doubt. I wonder what it is exactly but I know I’ll never get it out of him.
“I dunno,” he says.
I look at the wall, a large patch of flat brick with no windows. Ideal, I think. Two stories in height, and set down onto a flat blacktop lot. Even at age forty I see the possibilities for many dream-ball-like games.
“Here, lemme show you something,” I say walking toward the wall. Another nice feature of this wall I now see is that it has a decorative like ledge about six feet from the ground. The concrete shelf of this ledge slants up about forty-five degrees from the front edge. Perfect I think.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. Roger is silent. “O.K. you throw the ball against the wall, I mean, I’ll throw it. If you catch it and it’s a grounder you’ve got to throw it to me to get the out at first. If it’s a fly, you got to catch it or it’s extra bases. Now see this ledge? If I hit the edge of the ledge, the corner, the ball will sail over your head. Then it’s a home run if it goes past the blacktop.”
“Yeah,” Roger says. I don’t think he’s got it all but I’ll explain as I go.
“All right, you ready?” I look at Roger and come to a pitcher’s stretch position. Roger is ready. “Shift over a little,” I say. Roger slides, three hops to the left. In my stretch position I see from the corner of my eye that the Falcon game is in full swing. I hear loud shrieks, shouting, cheering, and notice fans jumping up and down, players running around the bases.
Back to dream-ball. “O.K here comes the pitch.” I am both pitcher and announcer for this game of dream-ball. All dream-ball games require an announcer, someone that calls the game and shouts with utter amazement at the wondrous and sparkling play of the star player – in this case – Roger. *
I fire the ball at an upward angle so the rebound is an arching fly ball. Then I announce, “There’s a high fly to left, Roger moves back, he’s under it, makes the grab.” All of this actually happens. “Alright, one down, O.K., Roger, what’s your last name?” I figure that announcers can’t be calling the center fielder by first name over the radio.
“Benson,” Roger says.
So I put Benson into the game and just as I played for the Cardinals in my dreamball games. Roger Benson plays centerfield for the Yankees. He follows Winfield in the order, batting fourth. As fielder, I give Roger an assortment of grounders, flies, and line drives, and pop-ups. Roger manages pretty well for a ten-year old. I see that he doesn’t want the game to end. But I grow tired, as adults do, and after ten or fifteen minutes of firing the tennis ball at the wall I announce that this is now the last inning and the bases are loaded and Benson steps up to the plate. Roger, in the field, takes the identity of the Red Sox outfielder.
“Alright, here’s Benson, he already has three hits on the day and at the plate now he has a chance to win this game for the Yankees if he can get a hold of one here.” I try to bounce the ball off the edge of the ledge but I miss so the ball comes back to me. “Ball one,” I announce. Roger understands what’s happening here. Anything that doesn’t result in a direct hit on the edge I call a ball, or called strike or foul ball. Finally I get one that strikes the sharp edge and it sails high into the air and over the Red Sox fielder’s head and I launch into my game-ending announcement. “Oh my gosh, Benson has done it again, that ball is gone! What a shot! It’s far, far over the center fielder’s head! All runner’s are going to score and Benson has again won the game for the Yankees.”
Roger high-tails-it after the ball, scoops it into his glove and walks back across the blacktop. I say “Nice game, Benson, you did it again. You won the game.” He looks at me with still wide eyes. “You hit the game winning home run,” I say.
“I know,” Roger says.
“Dad!” It's someone calling me. It’s the string of six again, heading back toward the school.
“Where are you going?” I say.
“For a drink.” But I knew that.
“Who’s winning?” I say.
“What are you doing?” Brett says.
“We’re playing a game. Who’s winning?” I say again.
They all look at each other, without talking. As if passing the question on down the line, does anyone know the score?
“Don’t know,” comes the reply. * When playing alone, as is most common, dream-ball players function in both roles, as announcer and player, which, for obvious reasons is often, both necessary better.
The Falcons are loosely gathered about their team bench,
For example, apparently imitating an opponent during batting practice, one Falcon assumes a batting stance, then suddenly throws up both hands and yells, “Whoa!” Next is a backwards stagger (spasmodic) which prompts sharp laughter from teammates. The demonstrator then recovers from his stagger, pokes jab-like at a nearby mate’s eye and says, “Shuuump!” The mate winces, then breaks into an adolescent strut. And so it goes.
I watch and listen, pretending indifference, which come to think of it is what the Falcons and the string of six are doing as well. The Cougars, in the field, provide background music - timeless sandlot chatter.
Officially this game had a name. It was called Pepper and big-leaguers played it to warm up before games. But what I remember most about our baseball games was that I never wanted them to end which was the thought that came to mind as I looked at Roger after pitching approximately a dozen high ones for him to field. I could easily have called it quits here, but for the look in Roger’s eye. Let’s just say, I’ve been there. That was the thing I could never understand as a child. Why didn’t my dad want to play baseball every single night - forever? Now of course I know, but back then, no clue.
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