The American Pastime
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The American Pastime Charlotte Warren E llen told me about Mickey Owen, the Brooklyn Dodgers catcher. It was the World Series of 1941, Dodgers vs. Yankees, bottom of the ninth. The Dodgers were ahead; there were two outs, two strikes, and Owen was behind the plate. And then there was a third strike, and the Dodgers had won ... well, would have won, except Owen dropped the ball. You drop the called third strike, and the batter runs. He did, and he was safe at first, and the Yankees proceeded to rally and win the game, and then the Series. All because of Owen's dropped third strike. “Could you imagine being Mickey Owen?" she asked me. "Could you imagine it?" I thought a moment. I was a catcher, but no. "No, I couldn't," I said. I used to play baseball, used to dream o f the day Ralph Kiner would say, "... and starting for the Mets, Al Geraldson, catcher." I know, I know, every little boy dreams that dream, even Ellen dreamed it as a girl; but still, I was good. Time goes by now though, and I grow older. When I was eighteen, I observed that Boris Becker had won Wimbledon at eighteen the year before. At nineteen, that Dwight Gooden won Rookie o f the Year pitching for the Mets when he was nineteen. Shaquille O'Neal was only twenty in his debut year in the NBA, and me, well, I'm older than twenty now. But that's not my story, not what I'm talking about. It's not my point. Baseball has gone on strike again, and I lie on my bed thinking maybe I should try out, maybe I could play for the Mets ... It was my freshman year o f college, we were playing whiffle ball, and Ellen was pitching and striking out every guy that came up. She was the only girl playing. It wasn't a serious game, no teams or anything. Just a bunch o f guys on a sunny spring day outside our dorm taking swings. As Ellen got hot, and the guys got fewer and fewer hits off her, more and more guys joined. 'Let me take a swing,” they said. They got hits here and there, scattered, but nothing solid. She just smiled, and shrugged. "C'mon Jerry,” she said; she always called me Jerry, for Jerry Grote, she explained. “C'm on.” So I went up to bat. I swung and missed the first one, and I saw her dark brown eyes light up in a big grin. She said, "Curve orfastball?” "Whatever," I said, so she threw another curve, and I took it downtown. Well, as far as it would go until it hit the top floor of our dorm with a smack and came back down to earth with a giant bounce. "He's on the baseball team," I heard someone say. Ellen looked at me and shrugged. I shrugged back. "Can I hit now?" she asked. The guys let her up to hit, and after two strikes, she rapped off three of the most solid hits after mine that we'd seen. I was just sitting on the sidelines. "The girl can hit too," another guy said. She shrugged again when she was finished and left to go inside. “Wanna come over?" I asked, and she followed me into my room. I turned on the TV. "Mets are doing pretty well so far," she said, sitting down against the wall. We only had one chair and I was sitting in it. A few months before, I'd tried to kiss her. I know she wanted it, why else would she always sit next to me at dinner, have separate conversations with me when we were in groups, punch me like in play? Everyone knew she liked me, it was written all over her face, but I don't know. I guess she knew me better than to do anything then. She never said anything about it. “David Cone," she said, looking towards the TV where a Red Sox game was playing. "They get lucky every year. I swear, they always have a new pitcher who totally dominates." It was May, the end o f the year. We were all kind o f studying for finals, more just hanging out. Baseball was over for me that year. I'd made varsity, started at third, because the catcher was a senior. "How'd you end up?" she asked. "Ok. That grand slam against Yale, of course. Batted .406, couple other dingers." You always bat better in college than anyone in the majors, of course, up fewer times. "I wish I'd made the softball team," she said. I was surprised she hadn't. When we tossed a ball around, she seemed good, but I guess that others were better. I went to her room after she found out, and she was curled up in a ball on her bed, crying. "I know you're good," I said, and she just wiped her nose with her arm and looked at me. Her face was all puffy and wet. Untouchable. "Maybe you could talk to the coach," I said, and then, because she just stared at me not saying a word, I sat down next to her and patted my lap. She laid her head in it, so I could only see and feel her hair, which felt wet too. We sat like that until her tears were gone, she curled up leaning on me, sniffing, shaking, and biting on her thumb, I with my arm around her, barely touching her, patting her head, petting her hair. Her body felt ok. She cried again when I went up to her room to say good-bye at the end of May. We hugged, and I looked at her, and there were tears. "Don't cry," I said. She shrugged. We were always shrugging with each other. That's what she did when she rejected me. It was almost two months after she'd been cut, the night of the Academy Awards, and a bunch o f us were hanging out watching. I followed her into her bedroom when they were over, and picked out a tape o f hers to play. It was a collection, made from the radio, so it was complete with missing first lines, and snaps o f the dj's voices. "Prediction for the Mets," I said, settling myself on her bed next to her. She seemed to notice me there, but didn't do anything. It was as if she observed my presence, while she remained far away, not part o f the action. "Well," she said, her back up against the wall, her knees bent, "they should win it. They have all the parts, the pitching, assuming Doc's back in form, the hitting, Keith and Carter still should hold it, and maybe this year Strawberry will finally live up to his potential." "I think he's reached it," I said. "Loserberry is what me and my brother call him." Her brother. She often mentioned her brother. He was only twelve, and she was very attached to him. He got a new glove, and she asked me the best ways to break it in. He could bat from both sides, but the coach only wanted him to swing righty, so she asked me my opinion. When he visited, she introduced me to him as the guy who would play for the Mets one day. I showed him my batting stance. The songs on her tape played on jerkily until I had to flip it, and still I'd had no sign, no response from her. I sat closer to her after changing the tape, and began tentatively to poke her. Her flesh felt good as her shirt rode up and I felt skin. This could be all right. She looked straight ahead, never turned to me to look into my eyes. "You ticklish?" I asked, squeezing the side of her soft belly, brushing lightly over soft hairs. She squirmed and smiled in answer, and I knew she was. She tried to tickle back, but I'm not at all ticklish. "That's no fair," she said. "Stop." I told her what was happening in baseball so far. We'd had spring training in Florida for spring break, and now that that was over, the season was beginning. She asked me when we played Yale and said she'd go visit her sister that week-end. I wormed my hand back to her side and lightly squeezed. She laughed. Her hands were on her leg, and she was looking intently ahead at her fingers. The tape ended, and she sat up and so did I. We sat on the edge of her bed, and I looked into her eyes. She looked up at me, scared almost, and I leaned forward, and began kissing her lips. I felt her hesitate. Then respond, and she could kiss fine. But then I felt her turn her head. It touched my shoulder and then pulled back. "Jerry." I looked down at her. I stared into her eyes, and she looked into mine. I saw want there. Longing. They were big and brown, gazing up at me, asking me for something I couldn't give. ‘You sure," I said. She just looked at me. I didn't want to miss out, so I still looked intently at her. And then she shrugged. "No, not good,' there was a big space with another shrug as she looked away and quietly repeated, "not good.” ‘Are you mad?" I asked her, and she shook her head, staring down at the floor.