There is a field down behind their house where cows once grazed, but the cows are gone and the barbed wire gone to rust, and the grass allowed to grow wild except for a cutting once a summer or maybe twice if conditions fell right, a little extra for the kitty his father would say, and in the center of the field is worn the shape of a diamond, the basepaths of the ballpark that lives in the boy’s imagination, the place where he is this summer’s afternoon.
His bat is scarred and heavy with age and wrapped at the handle with black tape to keep the splinters from his hands, and his baseball is a tennis ball worn to the rubber. His only companion in the grass that day is a six year old collie named Max whose place in this world of baseball of the mind is everchanging and as important as the
names and numbers the boy memorizes from the newspaper and the radio and knows by heart, if only another soul to share the joy of being outside on a summer’s day and the little triumphs found in games recreated from a boy’s mind and played with feet and arms in the hot sun and the dry grass, creatures born for this a boy and his dog.
And this day finds him late in the battle but at rest between innings in a close game between the dreaded and powerful World Champion Yankees of New York and his beloved Red Sox, his team held so far in the magic of the wily New York lefty Whitey Ford. But the Sox righthander Big Frank Sullivan has been almost as tough with only one bad pitch to the mighty Mantle sent to the seats in far away centerfield for the game’s only run. The collie rolls on his back in the dry grass and snaps at a grasshopper popping by and rolls to his feet staring at the boy eager to return to the play. The boy climbs from the ground and sets the blue cap with the red B firmly on his blond crewcut head, a little small on him but all the better for flying off as he turns the bases digging for third, but not today, the cap is adjusted in determination, it is the bottom of the ninth and only three outs stand in the way of defeat to the crafty Yankee Ford.
Let’s go boy, he says to the collie, and pushes his spectacles up against the bridge of his nose, his tee shirt stained with sweat and the dust from the grass and his dungarees dirty at the knees from a hard but futile fifth inning slide into second, but this is no time to quit in spite of the heat, the top of the Red Sox order is due in the home half of the ninth, the quick centerfielder Piersall who has already robbed the Yanks of a couple sure hits today up first and ready to face the best the Bronx Bombers have, and the boy takes up the bat and steps to the plate drawn in the grass and takes two half swings to get loose and tosses the ball into the air and puts both hands on
the bat and draws it back and swings through the ball and hits the ball straight up into the air. Shit, he thinks, there’ll be no hit for Piersall, calls the voice of the game inside him, Howard tosses off the mask and settles under the infield pop up, the collie bouncing on his hind legs snatches the ball from the air, one out for the Sox, and carefully sets the ball at the toe of the boy’s PF Flyer.
Next is Malzone the steady third baseman and the boy stands at the right side of the plate and tosses up the ball and lets it go, its outside, and the dog crouches on his haunches perfectly still waiting for his cue, the mighty swing of the bat, and in the boy’s mind he sees Ford take the throw back from the catcher and turn his back to the plate and rub down the baseball, the number 16 on the back of his gray Yankee jersey, and turn back to the plate to again face Malzone and up goes the ball as the boy swings and makes contact, a solid hopper through the grass maybe good enough, it’s a ground ball up the middle past Ford, and the dog is off, and the boy is off, arms churning hard for first, Richardson backhands the ball, comes up with it and throws, the slow footed Malzone pounding down the line, the boy stretches to the piece of burlap, the play, he’s safe! He staggers past the base, the dog a step too late to the base with spit flying, the ball in its mouth at his heel, and he takes the ball from the collie and says, C’mon boy, Ted is up.
Ted Williams the Splendid Splinter, Number Nine, his father’s favorite. The boy remembers all the stories how Ted hit .406 in 1941 and how he practiced his swing in front of his hotel mirror for hours at a time and how he’d gone to war to serve his country not once but twice, and how even now is still the best hitter in the game and maybe the best of all time. It is now Ted’s game to win with one powerful swing of the bat.
The boy steps to the left side of the plate and sets himself in
the way he believes Ted would, eye focused on the imaginary Ford sixty feet six inches away. He tosses the ball into the air, the collie crouched at the ready, and swings and misses and spins himself down to the grass. Strike One. Alright, here we go, up goes the ball, its perfect, he swings and again misses, his upper hand flying off the heavy bat, and now he is worried. Two Strikes. Ford will waste one here, he thinks, and tosses the ball, but the ball he intended to be outside the strike zone comes down out of the blue sky a perfect strike right down the middle and he instinctively swings the bat at the last second and misses by a mile. Strike Three. The boy drops the bat and sighs and he can see Ted walk back to the dugout crowd gone quiet, his chin up but his disappointment a mask on his long face. The boy wipes his hands across the back pockets of his dungarees and takes up the bat and says to the dog, Only two out, boy, we still got a chance, and turns to the right side of the plate and now he is Jackie Jensen the blond haired right fielder, and the Red Sox last hope.
He stares out, sees Ford wipe the sweat from beneath his cap, and then draw back his devilish left arm and kick out his leg and throw, and the boy tosses up the ball and feels the bat come around and then the solid plunk of the rubber ball against the wood and the ball is off like a shot, it’s a long drive to right center! Mantle is back, he can’t get, it its rolling to the wall! and the boy is already off, turning first base with everything he has. The collie leaps and is gone in the direction of the ball tunneling a path through the tall grass and the boy turns second base, Malzone scores easily! It’s a tie game! And now he comes around third base and can see old man Higgins the manager frantically waving him on, and the boy can hear the dog coming back at full speed through the grass and with the plate in sight he imagines Elston Howard the giant Yankee catcher crouched
and waiting for the throw from the mighty arm of Mantle, its going to be too late! but then the collie is streaking across the trampled grass of the infield the ball in his mouth, Here’s the throw! And the boy stretches out his arms and dives for the plate just as the collie arrives and lets loose the ball from his mouth one stride short of home plate and the boy chest first in the dust slides across, Howard drops the ball! Jensen scores! Red Sox win! and the boy jumps to his feet and with the dog playfully snapping at his heels around him he hears the cry of ten thousand cheering hometown fans and feels Jensen slapped on the back by his teammates, Atta boy Number Four! and the boy falls onto the brittle grass trying to catch his breath. The collie ceases his spinning dance and circles the boy a few times and lays in the grass next to him heaving for air with his tongue out, and there they rest, the game over.
Sometime later the sun has begun its approach to the trees and they hear the familiar growl of his father’s Buick in the driveway across the grass and up the hill from the field. The boy jumps to his feet and the dog beside him does the same, tail wagging. At the top of the hill stands his father in his white shirt and necktie holding his hat across his face to shade his eyes, his other hand waving, and Tommy says, C’mon boy, Dad’s home, and off they run through the summer grass, the heroics of the afternoon now just something for the dust.
Maybe before supper there’ll be time to play catch.
Keith Pearson
I live in southern New Hampshire and works with special ed students at a local high school.
