Slide - Kyle Beachy [111]
I sat holding a can of Fanta in each hand, cold metal easing the blisters already forming on my palms. Calluses gone, hands soft. A few men were discussing this afternoon's game. We had apparently called up a catcher from our Triple-A Memphis affiliate to fill in for the starter, who was suffering from back spasms. Poor old crumbling veteran catcher. Explanation for spasms likely that he spent his whole professional life crouched. His replacement was twenty-two years old and had spent four years in the minor leagues. I sipped a Fanta for Derril Brandt, the rookie, his first day in the Show, then walked into the only other available cage.
Token in, red light on, I stood waiting. The ball rocketed out of the machine, and I watched the hanging rubber square shudder. Watched a token's worth of balls slung toward me with enough backspin that I could see the pitch climb on its approach.
A group of construction workers took turns in the cage next to me. Hourly wages, laughter, recreation. Between tokens I watched. I admired but no longer envied. Work alone would not be my salvation. I dropped a token into the machine and waited. I felt my trigger and swung, missed, and saw the shadow of the rubber padding swing. The sun had crested and shadows were growing longer.
The balls thudded against rubber, then gathered at my feet. Another token and I began to catch up. My hands were being rubbed raw. Finally I caught a piece of ball, just a nick, a tip, fouling it off into the fence. The light went out.
“Zooming, ain't it.”
A man was standing outside the cage with his arms crossed. A big but I wouldn't say tall man, flat wide face, eyes pinched close and shaded by the barely curved brim of his ball cap. He could have been any of a number of coaches I had known in my life, those authoritarians who barked help but could also chatter for days. Watching the kid who can't seem to catch up with a single pitch.
“It's like I can't swing early enough,” I said.
I had to go down the slide. I had to make sure my top hand rolled over the bottom hand on my follow-through. Had to minimize the stroke. I had to calm the bat head while waiting. I kicked the balls forward and fed another token to the slot.
“You're lifting your head,” he said. “You're backing out of there; you're scared of something. Got to stay over it.”
He was absolutely right.
“You're right. Thank you.”
“Don't thank me,” he said.
More tokens, more missing. What had been pain in my hands faded to complete numbness. There were natural mechanics, that which the body did instinctively, versus that which was learned, forced, trained. The towering overhead lights flickered on and I thumbed another token into the slot. I hit a few weak ground balls. The other cages had cleared out. But there was no point going back to anything slower now; I was catching up.
On the next token, I found the rhythm. My trigger went earlier and my timing fell into place. To hit a ball square was a satisfaction unlike any other in life. And when I caught one a bit out in front of me and pulled it into what would be left field, the cheap bat responded with that clap sound like fwap, solid, and the dimples whizzed into the fencing.
“There you go,” the man said. “There you go.”
The most wonderful rhythm. After a few more of these it came to me; I knew what to do. I would immerse myself in the ethos of our national pastime. I would chew tobacco and coach some kind of team, Little League or Legion ball or anything I could find. Yes. I would lug bags of equipment and clap encouragement and say things twice. Speaking with them as this man spoke to me.
“You see what the Redbirds did today?” I asked.
“Yes sir. This kid Brandt might could turn into something.”
“That's what I hear. Good for him,” I said.
Let this be the point. The rhythm of amicable speech,