My One Great Throw

The boy came over Sunday night with his cornet, a CD of his sitting in with a fine jazz band, and a six pack. He's thirteen now and I have no idea whether the six pack came from his mother or him and figured it was impolite to ask. The important thing is that he had the social good grace to come bearing gifts. Hell, any thirteen year old who can't acquire a six pack when required is going to have a tough time navigating in this world.  He informed me that we were going to watch the game. When I asked him what game he just laughed, but it turned out to be the final game of the world series. So I broke open some chips and put a coke in front of him, and if he had anything else in mind he didn't say.

The tunes were really fine, and he accompanied himself with some nice counterpoint as we listened. I wished I could join him, but I have essentially retired the horn this past year. I get winded typing here these days and my teeth began hurting when I played, so sadly, like so many other things, one of the dearest parts of my life is now permanently on the shelf. But I listen to him play and my mind drifts off. He picked up my horn the first day he and the mother moved in, but it just didn't dawn on me what it was all about till about six months later. He is a fine musician even at his age, and in this long life it is one of the things I am most proud of. 

So we watched the game. The idea that I would ever be out on a baseball field was roughly equivalent to imagining me dancing Swan Lake in a tutu. My entire baseball career lasted about an hour and a half. I think back now on the day the boy moved in. He was a little six year old sitting there on the divan staring at his hands wondering what life would bring next for he and his mother. I tried to imagine what I would say to him. Given that my general disinterest in baseball was one of the great stumbling blocks between my son and I, I proceeded to ask the boy whether he would be signing up for little league this year. His general look of concern turned to fear and asked me if he had to. I assured him that there was no such requirement, and given that I had blown my relating to a kid wad on that bet I wondered to myself what my next move might be. So I told him that I didn't much care for the sport myself. This seem to perk him up much more than one would have thought likely. So I proceeded to tell him the story of the one time I had played baseball. The story of my one great throw.

The family was heading for an engagement in St. Louis when engine trouble put us on the station platform in What-Ya-Ma-Call-It Missouri. Some kids were playing baseball in a field on the other side of the tracks. When a couple of the kids came over, having spied me on the platform, they asked me if I wanted to play. My father was having none of all my assurances that would not be a good idea, which is funny given that he had long given up chasing down my return throws to him and my near complete inability to connect a bat with a ball. I suspect it was his weird sense of opportunity knocking he was always telling me about. Frankie, if someone is foolish enough to crack the door than stick your foot in and give it a good shove the rest of the way open he would say. It's easy to stay where you already are than to get to where you haven't gotten yet he would inevitably add. So anyway, what ever I thought of what these kids would think, I could not tolerate the inevitable quiet disappointment my father was a master at relaying, so I followed them across the tracks to where they were playing.

Wouldn't it be my luck, I was up. I swung wildly at the first two pitches that were no where close to the plate. I could feel the enthusiasm of my just acquired team mates waning when an equally wild swing at the third pitch managed to get just enough of the ball to loop it over the second base man's head and stamp my ticket for first. Well, I could tell they thought a little better of me now. If they didn't think much of my abilities they could at least admire my luck.

Anyway, the inning ended without an opportunity to score, and I was told to head out to deep center field. Deep enough so if anything headed my way it would land in front of me. With said confidence builder taken in, I headed out. Two kids struck out and one managed to get on without any trouble coming my way. I must of found this reassuring because I stopped paying attention only to find that the very next ball nearly took my head off landing right where I was standing. I knew I was in trouble now. I picked up the ball and closed my eyes, seeing that nothing in my past had ever rewarded their being left open, and I threw the ball with all my might. I opened my eyes just in time to see the ball land in the catcher's glove for the tag at home.

The boy sitting there on the divan was mighty impressed and asked me why I stopped playing baseball if I was capable of such a great throw. I told him that it was because I was aiming for the second baseman and if I never played again nobody would be the wiser. He slowly smiled and said good thinking. We got along fine after that. If the true happenings of that afternoon would cause me to sulk all the way into St Louie, well what good would relaying that to the boy have accomplished.

It was late when the game was over Sunday night, and as the boy said see ya, I thought of how fine life can be as I watched my one great throw walk out the door with his horn in hand.

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