“Ya know, you take on your spouse’s debt,” William told his son who had just announced he was getting married.

“Do you know how much equity you’d build if you took all this money you spend on fancy coffee and put it towards a life insurance policy?” William told his daughter when she brought him to a café for a heart to heart. 

“Look, I’m happy you found a job that you like, but an adjunct position isn’t going to help us make a dent in the mortgage,” William said to his wife before she slowly started moving out. 

Alone hadn’t been a part of the plan. But it did allow William to sell the house, pay off his debt, and despite the adjustments for alimony, retire just before his 60th birthday – the age of his father’s death. William felt he had righted a generational imbalance that his family could now enjoy. 

Alone hadn’t been a part of the plan. His family called on holidays and sometimes visited. 

“I don’t care if it’s the second trimester; it’s never too early to research college funds,” William told his daughter when he meant to say, “How is the pregnancy going?” 

Alone hadn’t been a part of the plan. William tried following news cycles but quickly tired of screens and endless outrage. A terrifying silence began to envelop his days. 

Pop. Pause. Pop. Pause. Pop. 

William recognized the sound of catch.

Ball hits leather glove. Pop. Person flings ball across the air. Pause. Ball hits leather glove. Pop. Person flings ball across the air. Pause.

William sat in the living room of his third floor, one bedroom unit. Adjacent to the room was a sliding glass door that opened up to a modest balcony. The outdoor space overlooked a couple of tired softball diamonds. William loved his bleak view. It was a picture of successful frugality. His neighbors on the opposite side of the thin walls paid 35 percent more for the exact same unit overlooking admittedly gorgeous views of trees, hills, rivers, and skies. 

Pop. Pause. Pop. Pause. Pop. 

The sliding glass door resisted William’s pulls. He could see the game of catch through the window and was disappointed to find pot-bellied, middle-aged folks warming up for a beer-league softball game. 

William once knew a middle-aged coworker who tore his ACL and PCL playing softball. The coworker had to have major reconstructive surgery. William would cringe every time he heard the officemate explain the juvenile reason behind his brace and crutches. Was there anything sadder than a grown man tearing up his knee for a kid’s game? 

William got the sliding glass door open and stepped onto the balcony. The subtle sounds of jokes and strategies swirled into the Pop and Pause. William closed his eyes. 

When he was in high school, William looked for reasons to stay away from home. Acclaim acronyms like AP, SAT, or NHS didn’t compute in his household. He joined the fledgling baseball team to round out his extracurriculars and accidentally fell in love with the game. Sports hadn’t been a part of the plan. 

Run to a base as fast as you can.
The rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Throw your body at a ball in midair.
The rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Hit the ball as hard as you can.
The rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Turn your body all the way up and let it explode into pure electricity. 
The rest of the world doesn’t exist.

William was good enough to play in high school, but not after. The only baseball players William knew who played beyond high school barely knew the spiritual, body freedom he felt on the diamond. The world and its expectations existed quite profoundly when they played. 

After high school, William had no interest in recreational baseball. Yes, he missed the game, but playing with reckless abandon only felt acceptable under the banner of school, profession, or elite amateur competition. What was the point of playing recreational baseball if he had to turn his body down to the cordial level with which he conducted himself in a grocery aisle?

The beer-league game started up. Old joints in braces trotted over the diamond. Aging limbs whipped cute little swings and the grapefruit-sized softball over the diamond. There was a wise joy bubbling beneath the bloated players and William started to understand. Moderation. As a child, William wondered why his dad always had to drink the whole case of beer. As an adult, he’d warned his children on their 21st birthdays, “Alcoholism runs in our family. Moderation is key.” Moderation. The ability to withhold – that was William’s power, his symphony. The beer-league players were enjoying the diamond game in moderation – withholding their vulnerable bodies for a taste of the spirit. 

William got home from the sporting goods store. He laced his wrinkled body into the starchy polyester. The uniform – tight pants, three quarters shirt, stiff glove – was an old friend slow to recognize William’s changed body. It had been forty years, but the uniform felt yesterday-close. He accordioned some flexibility into the new glove and crowned himself with a blue cap. 

The town’s rec center assigned William to The Cougars, a team of spritely middle-agers – most with young grandkids. They were the only team with several vacancies just like they were the only team who insisted on having a team name, logo, and for some games – when Charlotte would have her granddaughter dress in a cougar Halloween costume – a mascot. Lou Ann flung fastballs all over the field with no accuracy. Jerry dove for ground balls that rarely wound up in his glove. Denise swung for the fences like she was chopping down a redwood. The Cougars were fun, and any intention William had for moderation quickly evaporated.

William stepped to the plate for the first time in over forty years. A batting stance settled into him like Communion wine. The pitcher lobbed up a cookie. William kept his hands back, waiting, and when all was aligned swung as hard as he could. The contact cleaved William’s history of wrongs. The ball slammed into the earth and rocketed over the third baseman’s reach. William sprinted out of his skin for first base. When the left fielder mishandled the wobbly chopper, William careened around first toward second. He could feel the throw coming in. He launched himself in the name of his father, his kids, and the awakened spirit. The tag caught William on the nose as he came crashing down in a tangle of dirt, body, and base. “Out!” 

William had bit his tongue on the dive. He could taste the blood everyone saw on his teeth because he couldn’t stop grinning as he limped back to the dugout. 

The bruises, aches, gashes, and pulled muscles became something to parent in between games. William looked after his pain like a hobby. The body started to correct William’s posture of thinking from “They don’t get it” to “I don’t get it.” Daily hurt meant for far younger bodies demanded William away from his old self – his old conclusions. He played baseball as wildly and impractically as he could. Then he tended to his injuries until it was time to fly around the diamond again. The hurt was holy. William was changing. 

The Cougars only played once a week. William started to drive to nearby towns searching for other rec leagues to join. His unexpected acrobatics on the diamond started garnering attention. Locals passing through rec centers started taking notice. Instead of waiting in their cars for their kids’ soccer practices to end, parents parked their cars and caught an inning or two of Wild Willie whipping his ancient body around the diamond. 

A local paper even filled a slow news day with an article about William:

Wild Willie Steals Home
When William Musgrave retired after forty years as a claims adjuster, he didn’t buy a boat; he didn’t take up golf; he started playing softball five times a week. At age 60, William plays with the reckless abandon of a teenager trying to impress a pro scout. “I’ll play like this until my body won’t let me anymore,” Wild Willie, pictured here stealing home during a slow pitch softball game, told The Dispatch. 

William’s son saw the article and called his sister to see if she knew anything about this imposter, Wild Willie, wearing their father’s body. William’s daughter read the article while her toddler bounced around the living room. An anger started to flood the surprise and delight she felt towards the man in the picture. Why couldn’t he have been this father when she had needed him? The newspaper used a photo of her father diving headfirst at home base. It was most certainly William. His compact, bloated body suspended in midair. His face wasn’t contorted to brace for impact. It was open and celebratory. Her son jumped from an ottoman growling like a tiger. He pounced onto a giant stuffed zebra on the floor. In midair, her son’s face was her father’s.

Wednesday night games were Willie’s favorite. The rec center powered up the field lights and there was a confluence of sports practices and community activities that ended right when the beer-league games started. A large crowd would form under the lights turning nightfall into Willie’s World Series. 

Willie didn’t know his daughter, son, and grandson were in the bleachers as he stepped to the plate. Seeing their father comfortably settle into the batter’s box wearing a form-fitting baseball uniform was too shocking to process. Who was this person? William toyed with the count waiting for a perfect lollipop pitch. When it came, the planets clicked into place. He didn’t even feel the contact. The ball simply soared to the moon and Wild Willie floated around the bases. The crowd exploded, “Willie! Willie!” William’s family stood up with the rest of the people. 

For his next at-bat, William stung a ground ball through the gap. He sprinted through the sure single and challenged the outfielder to deny the double. William could tell midflight that the throw was off and charged past second for an impossible triple. The crowd roared at William’s theatrics. The throw sailed past his helmet toward the third baseman’s glove. William plowed into the earth sending a cloud of fairy dust all over the scene. As he slid into third, his cleats caught an awkward angle on the corner of the base. All William’s momentum reversed into a backdraft of force that exploded the ligaments in his knee. 

The cloud of dust came back to earth. William knew instantly. He stayed down lying back into the dirt. He stared up into the field lights. Teammates and locals crowded around with concern. His daughter’s face appeared in the overwhelming light. Then his son and grandson. Family angels. They were here. “Did you see the home run?” 

His daughter choked back intense emotion. “Yeah, dad. Total moonshot.” 

When a tear snuck out of his daughter’s eye, William lost it. He started sobbing. “I was so wrong.” He scooted through the pain to find some kind of penance posture. “I’m so sorry.” He tried to push more words through the sobs. The crowd formed a stadium around the confession. William’s son tried to help his father up. “I didn’t let you have fun. I didn’t let you find your free.” 

“We found it, Dad,” William’s daughter assured. “We found it anyway.” The daughter and her brother became crutches. 

William’s leg dangled and dragged. “I was a bad father.” They let him cry as they got him to the dugout. The locals processed behind the family. “I didn’t know how to enjoy anything.”

“Dad, stop!” William’s daughter instructed. “You found it. You figured it out. And we are here. Be here with us.”

“Because you found it.” William’s grandson instinctually reformed his mother’s words.

Life after baseball was spent being the father he hadn’t let himself be. 

“Go have a date night. I’ll pick him up from school and take him to the recital,” William insisted to his daughter.

“Of course I don’t mind if your mother’s there with her boyfriend. “I just want to be with the family,” William assured his son before Thanksgiving. 

“That’s ok. You’ll find something else you like doing,” William responded when his grandson said he thought baseball was boring. 

“So Wild Willie, do you miss playing baseball?” 

William looked at the abundance surrounding the dinner table. “Not anymore.” He blushed at his riches. A family of runs-scored despite a lifetime of signaling to hold-up. “Not anymore.”

BOBBY CRACE is a writer, editor, and teacher in New York City. He has been published by various literary, service industry, and sports publications. Bobby has an MFA from Stony Brook University and a BA from Berklee College of Music.