"All right Zelmo, let's see what you've got at the plate," announces Coach Zerilla in the middle of a close second game of a hot double-header at Southern Illinois University.
"Thanks," I mutter, squinting into the glaring afternoon sun while fumbling for a helmet at the mouth of the sunken concrete dugout seemingly placed to blind the visiting team.
“He’s going to come at you with the curve so stay in there until it drops into the strike zone,” Z advises from behind his Ray-Bans.
My first at-bat of the fall season was a reward for a stolen base and run scored in the first game. We’d lost 2-1, but Coach Z’s use of a designated runner after a walk by Duke Schneider had paid off when Duke Shumate knocked me in from second on a long single to right center.
Our practices after being sent home early were indeed more focused, if less fun. It was a sober four-and-a-half hour bus ride to Carbondale for the noon first game. By the 3:30 start of the second game the mid-September sun had amped up the midwestern humidity to stifling and both teams were getting grumpy, them at our Monty Holland mowing down hitters with his six-foot-four inch leverage, us at the frequent brush backs from their crafty right-hander.
Baseball brawls are an unwritten rule of the game. Sometimes rising tempers converge with an intimidating play to erupt into a free-for-all on the infield. Players usually just jostle around, shout a few profanities, and pull each other away. It's too bad there aren't formal guidelines, because occasionally someone gets violent and someone else gets hurt.
“Keep working him Z,” cheers Coach Zerilla with a couple of brisk hand claps at my working the pitch count to three balls and one strike.
“Can't stay in there pussy?” taunts the burly SIU catcher after my bailing on a curve coming at my head.
“Humph” I grimace on the payoff pitch, thwacking a sharp lined drive between the first and second baseman who takes a lunging stab and comes up with a snow cone poking out of his glove.
“I'll knock some sense into that asshole," whispers Tony Valenti as I jog past and he heads to back of the batter's box where his foot plants on the white line.
His flailing swing at the first pitch glances off the catcher's mask.
"Mother fucker!" shouts the catcher jumping up from his squat as the umpire steps between them.
The next pitch plunks Tony on the helmet and he charges the mound. In an instant I'm facing that catcher.
"Whoa Z!" exclaims Duke Schneider thankfully catching my arm mid-swing. "Nobody needs to get hurt."
Comments
Post a Comment