my ankles, wagging his tail at high speed.
Gertie walked over to a stainless steel waste bucket that was near the corner of the house. She stepped her toe onto the pedal. The lid rose, and she reached in with both hands and pulled out three softballs.
She walked over to the narrow driveway and set two of the balls down on the broken asphalt.
“See this chalk line?” She pointed at the asphalt.
Any line that had once been there was so faded that it was invisible to me.
“This is my pitching mark,” she said. “See the net at the end of the driveway? That’s home plate, forty feet away. The small net within the bigger net is the strike zone. Okay, let’s see how I do.”
She stepped up behind the invisible mark, got into position, and paused. She brought her arm forward a bit, swung it back into a deep back swing, then came forward in an under-handed arc and brought the ball up around in a full circle. She released the ball near the bottom of her swing. The ball shot out, seemed to hesitate, then began to rise a little as it shot into the strike-zone net.
“Wow!” I said. “Congrats. I’m impressed.” I clapped my hands.
She picked up the second ball and fired it into the net, this time with no rise, but even more speed. Then came a third.
“Strike three,” she said. “But that was a little weak.”
“You’re a softball maestro and self-deprecating too, eh?” I said. “What’s your pitching specialty?”
“Probably my fastball,” she said.
“You’re obviously very good at putting it exactly where you want it. How did you get so good?”
“It’s ’cause I made a plan. About how to get good. I’ve noticed that everybody who gets really good at something has a plan.”
“And your plan was to pitch well,” I said.
“Yeah. My plan was simple, really. I imagine the ball, the strike zone, the windup, and the release. In fact, the more I imagine my pitching, the better my accuracy when I actually throw the ball. I do it in bed at night. So you’re into softball?”
“We have some girl teams in my area that can kick butt. Sometimes my girlfriend and I watch their games.”
“Where’s your area?”
“I live in Tahoe.”
“Oh. I was there once. Like, it was a quick stop on the way from Reno to Sacramento. I begged my parents to go to the beach or swim or ride one of the cable cars up the mountain or anything, but they never let me.”
Gertie walked back to the front door, opened it, and grabbed a pack of cigarettes off a table just inside the door. She shook one out, lit it with a lighter, took a drag and looked at me through smoke. “I’ve also got a changeup that makes ’em swing too early every time,” she said. “And I’m working on a rise ball to rival Jennie Finch’s.”
“Who’s that?” I said.
Gertie looked shocked. “You’re into softball and you don’t know Jennie Finch? She’s only the most famous softballer of all time. Finch led the US team to a gold medal in the Athens Olympics. She pitched lots of perfect games over her career. She’s even struck out a bunch of major league ballplayers in exhibitions. It’s like, they’re big, macho, famous guys who think the idea of a girl pitching to them is a joke. And softball, too. It’s the easiest thing in the world to hit a big softball, right? But they can’t touch her rise ball. They just throw out their shoulders swinging at air because the ball is never where they think it’s gonna be. Finch is a goddess. Talk about having a plan.”
“You think she planned it all out from the beginning? How to become the best softball pitcher?”
“Of course.”
“And you are going to follow the same path? Plan and all?”
Gertie shook her head. “My coach says I have the skill set but I lack the hunger. She says that winning pitchers are dominant on the mound. Dominance is her big thing. How many times have I heard her say that she can teach pitching but she can’t teach dominance? Talk about making me
Gertie walked over to a stainless steel waste bucket that was near the corner of the house. She stepped her toe onto the pedal. The lid rose, and she reached in with both hands and pulled out three softballs.
She walked over to the narrow driveway and set two of the balls down on the broken asphalt.
“See this chalk line?” She pointed at the asphalt.
Any line that had once been there was so faded that it was invisible to me.
“This is my pitching mark,” she said. “See the net at the end of the driveway? That’s home plate, forty feet away. The small net within the bigger net is the strike zone. Okay, let’s see how I do.”
She stepped up behind the invisible mark, got into position, and paused. She brought her arm forward a bit, swung it back into a deep back swing, then came forward in an under-handed arc and brought the ball up around in a full circle. She released the ball near the bottom of her swing. The ball shot out, seemed to hesitate, then began to rise a little as it shot into the strike-zone net.
“Wow!” I said. “Congrats. I’m impressed.” I clapped my hands.
She picked up the second ball and fired it into the net, this time with no rise, but even more speed. Then came a third.
“Strike three,” she said. “But that was a little weak.”
“You’re a softball maestro and self-deprecating too, eh?” I said. “What’s your pitching specialty?”
“Probably my fastball,” she said.
“You’re obviously very good at putting it exactly where you want it. How did you get so good?”
“It’s ’cause I made a plan. About how to get good. I’ve noticed that everybody who gets really good at something has a plan.”
“And your plan was to pitch well,” I said.
“Yeah. My plan was simple, really. I imagine the ball, the strike zone, the windup, and the release. In fact, the more I imagine my pitching, the better my accuracy when I actually throw the ball. I do it in bed at night. So you’re into softball?”
“We have some girl teams in my area that can kick butt. Sometimes my girlfriend and I watch their games.”
“Where’s your area?”
“I live in Tahoe.”
“Oh. I was there once. Like, it was a quick stop on the way from Reno to Sacramento. I begged my parents to go to the beach or swim or ride one of the cable cars up the mountain or anything, but they never let me.”
Gertie walked back to the front door, opened it, and grabbed a pack of cigarettes off a table just inside the door. She shook one out, lit it with a lighter, took a drag and looked at me through smoke. “I’ve also got a changeup that makes ’em swing too early every time,” she said. “And I’m working on a rise ball to rival Jennie Finch’s.”
“Who’s that?” I said.
Gertie looked shocked. “You’re into softball and you don’t know Jennie Finch? She’s only the most famous softballer of all time. Finch led the US team to a gold medal in the Athens Olympics. She pitched lots of perfect games over her career. She’s even struck out a bunch of major league ballplayers in exhibitions. It’s like, they’re big, macho, famous guys who think the idea of a girl pitching to them is a joke. And softball, too. It’s the easiest thing in the world to hit a big softball, right? But they can’t touch her rise ball. They just throw out their shoulders swinging at air because the ball is never where they think it’s gonna be. Finch is a goddess. Talk about having a plan.”
“You think she planned it all out from the beginning? How to become the best softball pitcher?”
“Of course.”
“And you are going to follow the same path? Plan and all?”
Gertie shook her head. “My coach says I have the skill set but I lack the hunger. She says that winning pitchers are dominant on the mound. Dominance is her big thing. How many times have I heard her say that she can teach pitching but she can’t teach dominance? Talk about making me
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