Triple Play
Triple Play
A father might think,
watching these rarest of actions
on a sand lot field,
that his boy had suddenly
achieved hero status
amongst his peers.
He might grin the widest
of grins watching the game ending
play.
There is some credit he might
take; after all, he taught this
boy how to throw a baseball,
how to dig into the batter’s box
and read the stitches on a ball
hurtling in his direction,
count the stitches even,
and calculate in mini seconds,
the spin of a curve ball
or the top rotation of a fast ball,
take it’s measurement and meet it
as it arrives with the sweet spot of timber.
A father might puff out his chest
a bit, filling it with that
delicious satisfaction of passing
on a great secret of life
to the next generation; his own
boy.
You might think,
recalling his own
glory days on a Depression
Era team
with ragged, ill-fitting uniforms,
that he would know
that victories in youthful games
ready us for self-respect;
prepare us for the great risk of living
in full view of others and
that speed is god
on the diamond.
The boy had more speed and
audacity
than his team mates.
The dark pleasure
of stealing is one of the dirty
secrets of playing the game
at the edges of criminality.
Having achieved a base on balls,
he would not be satisfied
but wanted something
more duplicitous,
more salacious:
the stolen base.
Speed, greed’s partner, makes him bold
and off he goes,
after the illicit prize
that will surely amaze
and embarrass
the focused pitcher.
The sweet honey of it
is palpable in his mouth;
the heart pumping seconds
of anticipation hidden
by feigned nonchalance.
And he is in motion,
a god of winged victory,
the fastest kid on a makeshift
gang of rowdy combatants.
But they are ready for him;
waiting for his pride
to push too far,
and the ball has
miraculously arrived at second,
and a grinning, self righteous
glove is waiting to swipe
him out.
The walk off the field is eternal;
he looks around with
an absurd expression of
feigned victory, as if
his ploy has worked;
it’s the look he paints across
a face racked with
embarrassment.
After all, his
girlfriend was watching,
and worse, his father,
inexplicably standing in the outskirts
of center field.
How was he not at work?
A father might have a gulp of agony
for his defeated boy.
All the players on the bench
look away briefly,
one or two
nod; one or two
pat him on the back; they know.
The game stretches on into the final inning
and the boy might be wondering
about that attempted steal.
Might he have scored on the hit that followed?
Will he have lost the game
out of hubris?
Bases are loaded in the last of the ninth.
The boy’s team is ahead by one run.
He stands lonely at shortstop;
he might be thinking two
disparate thoughts:
hit to me and I throw the
runner out at home;
a momentary victory, at best.
The batter up has hit successive singles
up the center.
The boy thinks, “fade left a little,”
do it by pretending to push
away a pebble in the crude infield.
Move toward the future, as he
sees it.
He imagines a ball hit to his left,
and sees himself in the right place
to turn a double play. Okay, the game is tied but
he might get another at bat,
another chance.
The ball is lined sharply
past the pitcher’s head,
who literally falls back trying not to be hit;
only a step left and the ball
is in the boy’s mitt;
he had to jump a bit to get it.
He lands on second base
shocking the runner who is half way to third,
he glances at the runner coming from first,
who slips trying to reverse himself.
An easy toss to first
and it’s done.
The ringing in the boy’s ears
prevents him from hearing the
animal howls that erupt.
His pals tell him later
that the screaming
was the best fun they ever had.
The boy could only
hear the pounding of blood
as he feels himself lifted
aloft, paraded around the infield
like a golden image.
Thirteen is too young for true
heroism.
What was he to say?
How to feel the ecstatic
tumult of hands
pounding his body?
A father might be quite
beside himself
as his boy, still shaking with excitement,
approaches him
for the walk home;
just the two of them,
side by side, heading down the street
in silence.
A boy might feel like talking
about the triple play,
but it is not mentioned.
The only sound is the slapping of his glove
as he jammed a fist over and over
into its pocket.
Half way home
and silent, his father looking straight
ahead, looking pretty much like
today was like all others;
just a walk toward sameness,
toward supper, made ready
by a sullen woman
who always did her duty as mother
and wife,
perhaps a little annoyed at their
late arrival;
and the boy could wait
no longer.
He asks,
“What did you think of the game?”
His father shakes his head,
“You shouldn’t have tried stealing second.
The catcher had a great arm. Should’ve
known that.”
Photo by Snapmann 
