Open Tryout
The catcher squatted over home plate. He was trying out, too. I’d driven three hundred miles for this opportunity, but my head stayed in small-town Iowa. I was standing in my backyard near the fence. With my feet stacked atop each other, I was walking forward and counting to sixty, drawing the distance I had to conquer. I dug my cleat into the mound. I dangled my glove. I dug my cleat again. And I waited for my superstition to come true. All the greats believe in superstitions.
I’d told myself if the radar-gun-holding scout inside the visiting dugout blew a bubble in the next few seconds, I’d plunk the catcher right in the mitt. Randomness rules my life. I’m always saying if X happens then Y will go my way.
A pink balloon grew from the scout’s lips. I planted my fingers across the red seams. I hiked my leg. I twisted my hips. I unwound. I was stored energy. I was kinetic.
The ball landed in the dirt left of the catcher and kicked up a puff of dust. He flung off his mask, making a big show of my wildness, and put his body in front of the ball. He understood the fundamentals of the game. A passed ball meant possible runs scored. Me? I pitched like an actor acting.
Genetics blessed me with a five-foot-six-inch frame and stubby limbs, but our genes don’t dictate what we love. And I love baseball even though the sport doesn’t love me back.
Like most of us, my dad introduced me to the game when I was crawling around in Huggies. When I was five or six, I’d grip his hand and he’d say: “Looky there, honey, that’s a splitter or maybe a changeup.” This led to me idolizing hurlers like Greg Maddux, Pedro Martinez, Kevin Brown—basically anyone who commanded a mound. Unlike players patrolling the premier infield and roaming the lush outfield grass, a pitcher always touches the ball. As the positive end of the battery, a pitcher controls the pace of the game. Whether he strikes out twenty-seven in a row or dishes up ten runs, he called his shot.
The catcher tossed the ball back to me. Before sliding his mask over his face, he flashed the scout a look that said: “This is what happens when you let anyone come to these things.” He was right. I stunk. But what real pitcher wants to exit the game? Instead of leaving the mound and letting the talented get on with their tryout, I fiddled with the ball inside my glove and dreamt up my next sign.
This time I told myself if one of the parents sitting in the bleachers bragged about their child’s accomplishments, my curve would dip like the setting sun. Seconds ticked off silence. The catcher, back in position, glanced at the scout. Then I heard the proud papa: “My kid hit .345 throughout college. He sure takes after his dad.”
Baseball is full of sons taking after their dads.
I hiked my leg again. I folded my limbs. I concentrated on my stride, on my heel planting first. I concentrated on making my dad proud. The ball sailed upward and crashed against the backstop. The catcher popped up and retrieved my mistake. Frustrated and probably cursing me, he beamed it back. The scout lowered his radar gun and ambled toward the dugout’s exit.
My dad never played high school or college ball. Like me, his size and abilities kept him off teams’ rosters after little league. However, the way he speaks, you’d think he dressed for the Chicago Cubs.
Growing up, he’d ramble stats at me and have me guess the players they belong to. On summer vacations, he’d take me to Wrigley and buy me nacho-stuffed helmets. And when I got a little older, we’d watch the Baby Bears storm the field on cable and spend the day together screaming at umps, discussing our bullpen, and knocking back a brew or two. Whenever the Cubs lost or failed to punch a ticket to the postseason, we’d commiserate by saying “next year, next year is our year.” When they finally broke that baaing curse, the universe felt tilted, because baseball, for us, wasn’t about winning.
That’s why I was floundering on that mound.
I’d convinced myself chucking a ball around in my backyard after working my nine-to-five would transform me into a pro. I’d convinced myself my purpose in life was on the field. But really I was just searching for that feeling before the pitcher starts his windup and you look at your dad with anticipation. I was searching for those little gaps of time before things happened, before the batter struck out or smashed the ball over the ivy. I was searching for those little gaps of time where we’re all kids.
After college, I moved upstate for a job. I see my family during the holidays. I phone my parents once a month or so. But the distance, the punching in and punching out, the errands of every day, slowly morphed baseball, the Cubbies, into just numbers, into Ws and Ls. Hell, life has become nothing but Ws and Ls. Maybe that’s what happens when you reach adulthood. Those little gaps of time fade away. All the runners have long touched home.
The scout shuffled out of the dugout. While trudging toward the mound, he gestured to the catcher to stay put. He held out his palm like I owed him something. I refused to give him the ball. Instead, I whispered my final superstition and threw.
WILL MUSGROVE is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in trampset, Versification, Unstamatic, (mac)ro(mic), Ghost Parachute, Serotonin, Rabid Oak, Flash Frontier, and elsewhere. Follow him on Twitter at @Will_Musgrove.