August 2018

by Michael Conlon

Before I take my second step from the concrete dugout to the grass, I catch myself, look toward home, then deliver the code.

“Blue?”

The iron bars that protect his face turn in my direction. I stretch my right hand horizontally above my raised left hand, make the sign of the “T,” then wait. After checking to see that all motion has ceased on the field, he thrusts both arms toward the darkening sky, and declares for all to hear — “Time!”

I know him as Bob, a local C.P.A., married with no kids, a friendly sort if I catch him standing behind the stands, spitting out sunflower seed shells, waiting his turn to assert domain over 18 boys — 10 and 11-year-old boys — and their parents. Because of the latter, I address him on the field by his widely accepted, yet unofficial title and outfit color, “Blue.” This reassures our own and the opposing parents that I would never attempt a personal association, nor ask for personal favoritism from such an error-prone, unfairly-biased individual.  He grins my request for a time out, knowing either I can’t count or haven’t memorized section 3-3-7 of the Little League rulebook.

“It’s your third visit,” he chimes, assuring me that I won’t be required to remove my pitcher, Roger, from the game.

I sidle up to the foul line, much like Archie Graham toes the gravel in Field of Dreams, and wait for Roger to slouch over from the pitching mound. For some reason, the higher powers in Little League, sometime between when I last played and first decided to manage, had decided that an adult crossing onto the field of play was either an unacceptable time-consuming process or an invitation for the whole team to join in a discussion of whose fault the last play was. In any case, I have made the adjustment, in fact have become a master of the 15-second pep talk (we’re talking 10 and 11-year-old attention span here).  The key, as Earl Weaver or Walter Mathau might tell you, is 1) anticipate the problem, then 2) solve it before it occurs.

For example, my first visit of the inning took place after a bunt “home run” by their diminutive second baseman. Like a pinball, the baseball seemed to have picked up momentum with every hand it touched, traveling first from the trusty fingers of my third baseman, Steady Eddie, ten feet in front of home plate over Juan’s glove at first base and into the foul territory down the right field line. Hughie, now disengaged from a detailed analysis of a dandelion by a cacophony of shouts and fingers pointing from the field and stands, located the elusive white, threaded cowhide, picked it up, and launched it high above second baseman Joey and shortstop Brooks, finally dribbling into the leftfield foul territory. As the batter’s little legs staggered around third, Marky reached the hot potato and sent it flying home, intended for A.J.’s pounding catcher’s mitt, yet lodging with a twang into the chain link fence 20 feet above and behind home plate.

Roger tried to convince me that his current supporting defensive cast was incapable of catching anything else for the rest of their given time on this earth (My translation.  His version was “They all suck.”). I reassured him that it wasn’t his fault, that they were trying their best, and at least there were no base runners to worry about.  I walked back to the dugout as three dads yelled out to Roger conflicting suggestions as to how he might more effectively contort various parts of his anatomy before releasing the next pitch for greater accuracy.

My second visit of the inning was prompted by Roger’s walking the next three batters, then thunking the fourth in the helmet (a boy named “Tito Tito Tito” judging from the piercing screams from his mother in the snack bar).  I made my way to the edge of the field amidst the boos of opposing parents while two dads (apparently a paramedic — “Don’t move, don’t move,” and a lawyer — “Stay down. Stay down”) tended to the stricken victim now writhing in Oscar-worthy pain amidst his spotlight in the diamond dirt.  I encouraged my slack-jawed young hurler with my collection of can’t-miss platitudes — “It’s not your fault, Roger, accidents happen. The rest of the batters will be scared to death of you. Don’t aim it — just throw it. We’re only down by eight, it’s only the second inning. I’ll buy you some Big Chew if you can get one more out.”

However, Roger only cheered up when, Lazarus-like, Tito arose from the dust and bounded toward first base, his legendary status at tomorrow’s school lunch tables assured.  On my way back to the dugout, A.J. walked over, covered his mouth with his mitt to avoid detection by lip-readers on the other side, and whispered, “Should I change the signs my dad’s been flashing me to give to Roger?” Considering that Roger had only one pitch, I said “Sure.”

So here I stand, a third time at the foul line.  It isn’t A.J.’s missing the next pitch which bounced off Bob’s…er…Blue’s ankle, allowing one run to score.  It isn’t A.J.’s return throw over Roger’s head into centerfield, allowing the second run in.  It isn’t even Brooks checking out the scoreboard to see if we have qualified to forfeit the game via the 10-run mercy rule while a groundball trickles between his feet, sending Lazarus home. No, it is something much worse, something that even most big-league managers (besides Tom Hanks) are not equipped to deal with.  Roger is crying.

When I first encountered this little league phenomena where peer pressure and unrealistic parental expectations collide with innate human immaturity, usually resulting from a strike out, error, or misplaced mitt, I tried the direct approach with the player—”Hey, come on now, what’s the matter, what’s the big deal?  We’re having fun, aren’t we?” The stricken looks on the victims’ faces set me straight–this was Armageddon, the end of the world, the black hole from which no traveler returns, and I might as well be calling for reinforcements at Little Big Horn as far as they were concerned.

After some thought, I prepared for the next outburst of moisture with a classically proven formula — comic relief. If Osric or the Porter could deflect the audience from the homicidal tragedies of Hamlet or Macbeth, surely, I could transport a young boy from depths of despair. Upon the next tragic miscue, I chimed in —”Hey, who died? What, you lose a leg or something? They run out of pizza at the snack bar?”— but this attempt produced no comic relief, just more sobbing tears.  As the season progressed, I even tried comparative commiseration —”Hey, this isn’t half as bad as the last time you cried, is it?”  Unfortunately, a 10-year old’s memory is selective and short.

So, I tell A.J. to go over to the screen and talk over some strategy with his dad, get down on one knee (staying in foul territory, of course) and look up at the glistening cheeks and red eyes of my martyred hurler.  With Knute Rockne on one shoulder and Mother Theresa on the other, I wait for those sad eyes to rise and meet mine, then offer —”You know, Roger, I think that maybe we should let Billy finish pitching the inning…”

Without a word, Roger storms back to the mound, fires three bullets past their clean-up hitter, and is back in the dugout spitting sunflower seed shells into upturned batting helmets before you can say “Snips and snails, and puppy dogs’ tails.”

I guess there is some lesson here about the law of supply and demand, or survival of the fittest. But I don’t have time to figure it out. Luis can’t find his second batting glove, Eddie’s mother has arrived to take him to a birthday pool party, and Brooks is beginning to do the bathroom dance, so I have to scour the depths of my equipment bag and find his emergency card to see who can legally escort him to the john. Ah, the heck with it.

“Blue?”

Michael Conlon is a retired high school English teacher and softball coach from Southern California, who lasted one year coaching his son’s Little League team. The kids were great. Endless tryouts and drafting, searching for and squatting on potential practice fields pockmarked with holes where “stay down on the ball” risked a potential trip to the plastic surgeon, and explaining playing time, batting orders, and strategy to parents dampened his enthusiasm for the national pastime. He wondered if it was always like this. From the end of Field of Dreams II — “Hey, Dad, you want to coach?”

by M.C.K. Carter

I ran yesterday — four miles. Late in the day, my route took me almost straight west. I ran past fields, fall-plowed too wet. Mounds of heaved dirt chewed up with corn stalks. Flat acres of soybean ground, level as a floor. Low in the sky, the sun had pulled cloud trails together like scarves of orange and rose. My smooth black leggings and the red-violet swash of my shoes contrasted against the sagging, settled asphalt.

The last thing the world needs is another essay on growing old. Seriously, again? What do I think I can add?

Two years ago, I read Mark Jacobson’s essay, “65,” which began by recounting the ages he considered “old” at different years of his youth: 37, 42, 52, and finally, 65.

At every stage of my life, I have stretched time out like a rubber band for an extra 10 years. I married at 30 and had my first child (our son) at 33. Started my doctorate at 40, then taught elementary art for three years, had our daughter when I was 44, and finished my dissertation at 47 — barely in time. It’s an odd chronology — like slides out of order in the carousel. But there they are: two children, a doctorate, a marriage. A whole life out of time, and out of sequence.

But it never bothered me. In the movie, Orlando, Tilda Swinton remains ageless and proceeds serenely through time, adroitly switching genders and partners with every century. I’d look at my face in the mirror. The idea of this self — a constant — looking out through eyes that work because a heart beats enough, seems plausible. Yep, still there.

Last year I turned 60.

And then, people started dying. Prince, David Bowie, and Alan Rickman — 59, 69, and 70, respectively. For the first time, the thought came: how much time do I have left? David Bowie is gone now forever — not a piece of performance art or a concept album to be revealed next week. Prince looked eternally 19.

If I die at 70, like Bowie and Rickman, I have 10 years.

Lucia Berlin, short story writer. Published 77 short stories. Died at 68.

Make the most of it, whispers the fairy godmother.

***

But more than my age led up to this running on the county roads.

First: my daughter is now 17. I did the math. When she’s my age, I’ll be 104, if I’m still alive. I’ve watched my in-laws and my own parents age. The slowing down starts about now, in the mid-sixties. The consequences of ignoring the body’s yellow warning lights (not red yet) begin to show. And it’s just easier to do less. For example, our family doctor told my dad when he was 63, his blood sugar was a bit high and he wanted to put him on a diet to bring it down. Dad’s-oh-so-Chicago reply: Bullshit.

My dad can hardly walk now. He despises his walker, a folding aluminum cliché. If he falls, my mother calls “the big house” (their name for it) and two burly men are sent to their duplex. They hoist him up and check for damages. If he’s lucky and he didn’t hit anything on the way down requiring stitches, my parents will thank them cheerfully, gratefully, all the while Dad muttering, Jesus Christ, getting old is a bitch, this is a helluva thing, goddamnmit, thanks guys, Jesus Christ am I bleeding somewhere? Shit. Barb get me band-aid, hell no I’m fine. Vertical posture re-attained, the reason he fell is forgotten and fades away. The convenient amnesia of an alpha-male. So, while he hates he can’t stand up on his own, hates the walker, hates this whole goddamn business of getting old — he hates exercising even more. The one thing that would help.

It is easy to see this from a distance, the tiny complexities and entanglements not quite visible. But I consider him a cautionary tale.

Second. My depression. In the parlance of our time I’m supposed to say: I live with depression. Which gives it a companion-like aura. Someone described it like wearing a lead vest. For myself, it’s like the lead covered my head and shoulders, pulling me into a stupor, like moving through slowly hardening concrete.

I ran in high school to lose weight — which never worked. And in college, it was an easy way to pass the required gym classes. I was a graphic designer in my twenties. I lived downtown in a renovated Victorian mansion and felt very smart and urban. But, learning on the job, I made some mistakes costing our department money. I began to fantasize driving my car off the interstate embankments.

My high school on the west side of town had a cross-country track that ran around and about through the neighboring fields like a Celtic knot overlaid on the acres of grass. Two or three times a week, I’d drive out there and run and run and run. It worked like drug and the effect lasted for about the next two days. It wasn’t like running away — it was running away. My super-power.

I remembered how that felt.

It took me six months to work up to these four miles. I started very slowly, setting my iPhone to time the laps. Run for two minutes, walk for a minute. Repeat eight times.

Whatever the chart said, it took me longer to get there. Our family doctor had cautioned me: after the age of 45, it takes twice as long (or more) to build muscle mass. So, I didn’t push it. I accepted whatever I could do, and just kept on. I noticed that after the walking bits, running again was much easier. As much as it felt like I was running with cinderblocks for feet, if I walked for a bit, and then started up again, those first glorious minutes were ease and grace. And afterwards, my skin radiated, capillaries pulsing.

My shoes were three years old and an ache under the ball of my foot began appearing at the end of every run. By October, I decided I needed a new pair of shoes.

I took a list of the top four women’s running shoes to our sports store. Narrowed my eyes at the Nike swashes all over the windows, on the shoes posed in the small windows facing the mall, and on the t-shirts draped from the walls above the racks.

I read my list to the smiling young woman at the counter. Yes, they had three of the four and a newer model of the number one shoe.

Self-consciously, I ran around the store wearing each pair. The first shoe was the best. It was soft, and yet my whole foot felt supported. The second, its new updated version, had a firmer ride. The other two were good, but no comparison to the first pair.

I felt elated. I was not going gently into this good night. This new commitment needed to be affirmed. I asked for and was shown two pairs of leggings and a new running bra.

Thursday morning, I rolled out of bed. Grabbed the new leggings and unfurled them. The black spandex nylon sheathed my legs as I pulled them on, the curving silhouette of my calf against the rug. The widest part of the waistband spread firmly across the small of my back and the front curved slightly downward. In real life, my stomach rolls gently out. I had this stomach before I had my children and I have long accepted it as feature of my personal topography. But this amazing garment made it… not invisible, but somehow a more congruent curve to my body. The rounded belly on the Nike of Samothrace. In black lycra.

I’d only been out of bed 10 minutes.

The running bra came next. It had a swash. It was grey, snug, and hugged my breasts firmly to my ribcage.

Another look in the mirror. Me, but a faster-looking, hint-of-power me. A more-like-Scarlet-Johannsson me.

I had left the new shoes in their box. Now I set it on the bed, and lifted the lid. The tan tissue paper, translucent and crisp, crackled as I pulled it aside. The shoes lay nestled together. Deep red-violet glowed through the black mesh fabric of the uppers.

Radioactive. Glowing embers. Veiled power.

I pulled one out. The white sole layered with red-violet. It was light. Airborne.

The cushioning inside enveloped my feet as I put them on. The thick, soft laces were black, trimmed with white and knotted with a cushiony grip.

The last thing before leaving the house: I turned my cell phone to the U2 station. In a wave, music flooded my ears. The pulsing beat filled me, carried me. The air was cool, icing across my thighs, winding up the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

My stride found its rhythm and I turned onto the road. These are my legs. This is my heart pounding. My lungs breathing. The music plays on. I am utterly myself under this dome of sky.

Ten years is long enough I think. It’s plenty of time.

 

M.C.K. Carter lives near Alexandria, Indiana. She has an M.A. in creative writing from Ball State University, where she teaches Art Education and Art History. This is her second essay to be published in Sport Literate. Other essays have appeared The Atticus Review, and Juxtaprose Literary Magazine. She lives on a family farm with two Welsh Cobs.