Slot Machine by Chris Lynch Page A

and catching every pitch was beating me down. I drank all the Gatorade they’d allow me between innings. There was always a line at the cooler. When it was my turn, I took my cup to the back of the line and drank while I waited for more. I heard guys around me talking baseball, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because I didn’t know baseball. And I couldn’t because I couldn’t talk.
    There was, unfortunately, a rally. Just as I had gotten all my gear back on, I had to strip it off again. I put on my helmet and went to the plate.
    The first pitch was coming right at me. I bailed out of the batter’s box. The ball bailed the other way. Steee-rike.
    The second pitch was coming right at me. I waited a bit longer this time, then fell backward. Like a bowling ball spinning across the lane, the ball went the other way again. Steee-rike two.
    I could not, and never would, not if I faced ten thousand of them a day, fathom the curve ball. All I could hope was to outguess it.
    The next pitch came my way, but I wasn’t going anywhere. Even when I realized it had a lot more on it than the previous two. It was going to break, it was going to break. I was not going to look foolish again, dammit. Break, ball.
    Of course, it never broke. That’s what setting up the batter is all about. As a catcher I was supposed to understand that.
    They say that the hardest thing to do in all of sports is to hit a baseball. I say the hardest thing to do is to get out of the way of one after guessing wrong.
    The ball caromed off my helmet, back out all the way to the shortstop. Better than if I’d hit it with the bat.
    Mostly I was stunned, not hurt. I trotted to first, and was pretty pleased to be there. The first baseman slapped my butt, and I felt a little bit a part of it all.
    The next batter hit a rocket into the left centerfield gap. The runner scored from third. The man on second motored all the way around and scored easily.
    For twenty seconds or whatever it took, I put more effort into running than I’d ever put into something physical before. The other runners were in, and there was me. I desperately wanted not to kill the rally, but I kept running and running and second base just wouldn’t come any closer. I saw the left fielder wheel and throw toward second. I chugged, feeling all the parts of my body shaking, my hat blowing off. I felt something behind me, the hitter, who was about to run up my back until he realized he had to go back.
    I flopped, threw myself at the bag, kicked up a mushroom cloud of dirt as I slid facefirst. It was a mess, but I was there.
    “You’re out,” the umpire said matter-of-factly. I was shocked, but apparently I was out by enough distance that the fielders were already trotting off the field when the ump raised his thumb.
    It took a long time to get myself out of the dirt. It turned instantly to mud on my face, neck and arms, mixed with the sweat. Guys ran off the field, guys walked or ran on. I trudged slowly, trying to tuck in my shirt as I went, trying to find my hat. When I eventually reached the bench, the coach was strapping on the catcher’s gear.
    “You want to call it a day, son?” It was not unkind, the way he said it. But it didn’t seem to come easy either.
    “I guess so,” I said.
    So I got my wish. The vision of sitting on the bench, kicked back, scratching, spitting, yelling “Hummm baby,” and “No batter up there,” and sipping Gatorade without waiting in line and chewing on sunflower seeds—it was mine now.
    It wasn’t ten tons of fun, but it was peaceful and relaxing. I watched the final few innings, but I could not say what went on, who won, if Smoke got his no-hitter. What I could say is that the field had a strong smell of chamomile, coming from a big patch in right field, and that a total of twelve puffy clouds lazed across the front of the sun, and that two of them looked like my old fat dog Sheba, and one looked like a convertible Mustang with an infant at the