to a homeless fellow they’d get an urge to snuggle up to him, but if they sat next to a baby they’d get an urge to kill it? Something tells me there must be people like that somewhere, Kenji.”
Listening to Frank talk like this made me feel queasy. “I’m gonna hit a few,” I said, and put the fence between us.
I stepped into the batting cage marked “100 kph.” The floor was concrete and slightly sloping so the balls would collect at the bottom, near the machines, and the concrete was painted white but took on a bluish tinge in the fluorescent lights. Beyond the net all you could see were the neon signs of the love hotels and their sad, dimly lit windows. I stretched briefly, thinking: Could the view possibly be any bleaker? I selected the lightest of the three available bats and put three coins in the slot. The pitching machine’s green light came on, I heard the low rumble of the motor, and before I knew it a white ball came zipping out of the long, narrow darkness. Even a hundred kilometers an hour is pretty fast, and I wasn’t really ready, so I missed the first ball completely.
My next few swings weren’t much better. I couldn’t get a solid hit, kept fouling the ball off, and Frank sat back there staring at me. Finally he got up from the chair and walked this way. He clung to the fence and said: “Kenji, what’s the matter, you haven’t hit one past home plate!”
For some reason this really pissed me off. I didn’t want to hear shit like that from someone like him.
“Watch that fellow.” Frank rolled his eyes toward the guy in training wear, two cages up. “He’s banging the heck out of ’em.”
This was true. The guy was nailing almost every pitch—at 120 kph—and lining them all toward center. His bat speed wasn’t something you see every day. I figured him for a pro of sorts, maybe employed as a ringer for a team in the early morning leagues. I’d heard you could find such specimens in Kabuki-cho: guys who, after starring on high-school or corporate teams, get into trouble with women or gambling or drugs and, not having any other way to make money, become paid secret weapons in the amateur leagues. They’re on a piecework basis—¥2000 for a home run, ¥500 for a hit, or what-ever—so they need to stay in practice.
“I’ve been watching you this whole time, Kenji. You haven’t hit the ball cleanly even once yet, and these pitches are a lot slower than his are.”
“I know that,” I said, a little more loudly than necessary. I took a huge swing at the next ball and missed. Frank groaned and shook his head.
“Oh my God, what was that? And such an easy pitch!”
That did it. I stepped away and took a few practice swings, trying to focus. Frank was back there muttering that it must be a curse, that even God had abandoned me, or something along those lines.
“Will you be quiet, please!” I shouted. “How am I supposed to concentrate with you talking like that?”
Frank sighed and shook his head again.
“Kenji, do you know the story about Jack Nicklaus? Very famous story. Jack had a long putt to decide some major tournament, you see, and he was standing over the ball concentrating so hard that he didn’t even notice it when the wind blew his hat off. Now that’s concentration.”
“Jack who?” I said. “Never heard of him. Just be quiet, all right? If you’ll just be quiet, I’ll hit that home run sign for you.”
“Hmph,” Frank snorted. Then, nodding slowly, his face a blank mask, he said: “Wanna bet?”
The way he said it really got to me. Maybe Frank pulled this kind of stunt all the time, I thought. Maybe all the needling had been calculated to lead up to that final line: Hmph. Wanna bet? Looking at that poker face of his I found myself thinking he just might be the sort of scumbag who would stoop to something like that. But it was already too late.
“Fine with me.”
I was saying these words before I even realized it. That cool, clear judgment I
Listening to Frank talk like this made me feel queasy. “I’m gonna hit a few,” I said, and put the fence between us.
I stepped into the batting cage marked “100 kph.” The floor was concrete and slightly sloping so the balls would collect at the bottom, near the machines, and the concrete was painted white but took on a bluish tinge in the fluorescent lights. Beyond the net all you could see were the neon signs of the love hotels and their sad, dimly lit windows. I stretched briefly, thinking: Could the view possibly be any bleaker? I selected the lightest of the three available bats and put three coins in the slot. The pitching machine’s green light came on, I heard the low rumble of the motor, and before I knew it a white ball came zipping out of the long, narrow darkness. Even a hundred kilometers an hour is pretty fast, and I wasn’t really ready, so I missed the first ball completely.
My next few swings weren’t much better. I couldn’t get a solid hit, kept fouling the ball off, and Frank sat back there staring at me. Finally he got up from the chair and walked this way. He clung to the fence and said: “Kenji, what’s the matter, you haven’t hit one past home plate!”
For some reason this really pissed me off. I didn’t want to hear shit like that from someone like him.
“Watch that fellow.” Frank rolled his eyes toward the guy in training wear, two cages up. “He’s banging the heck out of ’em.”
This was true. The guy was nailing almost every pitch—at 120 kph—and lining them all toward center. His bat speed wasn’t something you see every day. I figured him for a pro of sorts, maybe employed as a ringer for a team in the early morning leagues. I’d heard you could find such specimens in Kabuki-cho: guys who, after starring on high-school or corporate teams, get into trouble with women or gambling or drugs and, not having any other way to make money, become paid secret weapons in the amateur leagues. They’re on a piecework basis—¥2000 for a home run, ¥500 for a hit, or what-ever—so they need to stay in practice.
“I’ve been watching you this whole time, Kenji. You haven’t hit the ball cleanly even once yet, and these pitches are a lot slower than his are.”
“I know that,” I said, a little more loudly than necessary. I took a huge swing at the next ball and missed. Frank groaned and shook his head.
“Oh my God, what was that? And such an easy pitch!”
That did it. I stepped away and took a few practice swings, trying to focus. Frank was back there muttering that it must be a curse, that even God had abandoned me, or something along those lines.
“Will you be quiet, please!” I shouted. “How am I supposed to concentrate with you talking like that?”
Frank sighed and shook his head again.
“Kenji, do you know the story about Jack Nicklaus? Very famous story. Jack had a long putt to decide some major tournament, you see, and he was standing over the ball concentrating so hard that he didn’t even notice it when the wind blew his hat off. Now that’s concentration.”
“Jack who?” I said. “Never heard of him. Just be quiet, all right? If you’ll just be quiet, I’ll hit that home run sign for you.”
“Hmph,” Frank snorted. Then, nodding slowly, his face a blank mask, he said: “Wanna bet?”
The way he said it really got to me. Maybe Frank pulled this kind of stunt all the time, I thought. Maybe all the needling had been calculated to lead up to that final line: Hmph. Wanna bet? Looking at that poker face of his I found myself thinking he just might be the sort of scumbag who would stoop to something like that. But it was already too late.
“Fine with me.”
I was saying these words before I even realized it. That cool, clear judgment I
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