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Chapter 9: Red Monster




      "Up against the wall!" commands Coach Zerilla as we trudge off the bus at midnight after twin losses at Southern Illinois. "If you can't lay down a bunt in a close game, maybe you'll do it now."

"Coach, it's been a long, hot day," groans Tony Valenti, his bow-legged gait heading stiffly toward the field house.

"We'll be out here all night if we have to, Valenti," Coach Z decrees carrying a bag of balls and a lone wooden bat over to a switch box on one of the huge telephone poles surrounding Paterson Field. "No shower until you get one down!" 



     The old field at the edge of campus had been home to the U of L Cardinals since 1923. A large wooden grandstand around the infield had allowed it to also be the stadium for Louisville minor league and negro league teams until the rickety old structure was torn down in 1961. A distinctive feature of the field was a tall brick wall in left field reminiscent of the green wall at Boston's Fenway Park, though our red monster was out of play above a home run line.

     At first I was game for midnight bunt practice despite being spent and dehydrated from the day's events. Coach Zerilla had called for a stop at McDonalds before the bus got onto interstate sixty-four for the long ride back to Louisville. The Big Mac, large fries, and orange drink might have allayed my sorry state after two hot games if I hadn't tossed them all back up into that extra-large drink cup. 

     While Z turned on the stadium lights I hustled over to a dumpster beside the field and then took a quick slurp from a nearby water pump. Jogging out to rejoin the others walking toward the brick wall, I felt awake enough to be able to see the baseball. The upperclassmen weren't so tolerant of our late date with a former pro pitcher,  grumbling even as they jostled to be first in line to get one down and get home.



     "Back of the line, you big pussy!" taunts Coach Zerilla when senior pitcher Chuck Shoop bails on a pitch coming right at his chest and the ball caroms off the bricks.

“The shower for you," he grins when Brett Goff stays in there and lays one down, handing the bat back to Duke Schneider.

"Chicken shit!" Z scowls nodding to the lineup when Duke taps a nice one but backs away to do it.

"That's how it's done," he smiles after Tony Valenti drops one thrown at his head, and I feel the red monster rising behind us.

“Asshole,” Tony growls tossing me the bat, and I visualize whipping it at our coach’s legs.

“Zelmo!” Coach Z exclaims as I lay down a perfect bunt, drop the bat, and walk off the field.




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