* * *
“Bringing the High Heat"
“Hey, kid. What are you out so late for?”
There I was, out
on a late summer’s stroll through Schenley Park. I was always fond of seeing this particular
section of the city with the full moon out.
Casting its light on the fountains and statues and wide green spaces, it
gave one the impression of walking into a bygone era. It was a reverie I lost myself in frequently,
and one I was shaken from when I saw a girl, maybe eleven-years-old, standing
alone on a softball field.
The girl—I never
learned her name, but when I asked around someone suggested that it was Jessie—looked
at me as if my asking her was a source of confusion. “Playing baseball.”
That much was
obvious. When you see a young girl
standing a pitcher’s rubber with a mitt and a faded yellow Pirates cap, there
are only some many explanations. Of
course, when one factors in that it was nearly ten o’clock at night and that
there was no one else on the field, even those few plausible explanations cease
to make much sense.
“I can see you’re
playing baseball,” I said, “but you do know that it’s dark out, right?”
“Yeah, I can
see,” she said with an air of annoyance that this old geezer was asking her
such dumb questions. I got the same
response when I asked if her parents knew where she was (“Yes, naturally”) and
whether she was waiting for anyone else (“No, of course not”).
Clearly, I
thought, having a conversation with this girl, besides the implications that
may carry to passers-by, was not a fruitful proposition. The old man buried deep within me wanted to
moan, “The damn kids today,” and walk off shaking my cane, but as I lacked a
cane and an old geezer’s voice that was impossible. Still, just thinking about her curt response
was enough to irritate me, though I’m not sure whether it was the attitude or
the lack of substance that proved bothersome.
All that time I
was thinking, she didn’t do much beyond staring at the backstop. Jessie looked right into that chain-link
fence, as if she were staring down a capable but middle-of-the-road batter on a
1-0 count. Only, she took extra time
between breaths, ratcheting up the tension; it must have been the bottom of the
ninth in her head. I couldn’t imagine
getting much a reaction one way or another from a tangled web of metal, but I
could see the expression in her face shift ever-so-slightly from moment to
moment.
At first, she
seemed cold, giving off the aura of smooth dealer about send a breaking ball right
by her adversary. Then, just for a flash,
all that confidence drained from her face.
“He knows it,” it seemed to scream.
“He knows that the heat is coming up and in.” But just as I thought that a
deer-in-the-headlights look was going to occur, I saw a slight smirk cross her
lips. It was a false alarm; the backstop’s
posture clearly gave away that he was betting on a change-up.
Suddenly, I
heard the rattling of metal and caught a glimpse of the baseball feeling bouncing
back to the pitching circle. To be
honest, it caught me off guard. I had
thought that a bullet had just been fired or something. When I looked up, there was Jessie, still
standing in that same spot, but now holding back a laugh.
“Yes, yes,” I
said, trying to diffuse things as quickly as possible. “Laugh, laugh—you got me.” I brushed off my sleeves in some strange
attempt at a gesture and added: “You’ve got quite an arm there, kid.”
“Heh. Thanks.”
She still laughed, but at least I could tell myself that it was on my
own terms. “This is the perfect spot for
baseball. Wouldn’t you agree?”
How could anyone
disagree? Where we stood at that moment
was where Forbes Field stood all those years ago, back when the plaza was a
parking lot and the Pirates were pennant contenders. It had been torn down back in 1971, but
nobody could ever forget the baseball history that laced this tract of
land. A section of wall still stands in
the park, and right beside it—right where Jessie was pitching—was a softball
field dedicated to Bill Mazeroski.
As I
contemplated the significance of this little softball field, Jessie shouted, “You
know, someday, I’ll be pitching for the Pirates!” She threw the ball up into the air and caught
it with a jump. “Yeah, just you wait—Game
7, World Series, strikeout to win the game!”
I couldn’t help
but smile. “Hope you grow up fast,” I
said. “They could use you right now.” I had fastened my jacket and was about to go
on my way, when something pulled me back.
Later I rationalized that I didn’t want to leave her alone at this hour,
but that really could not have been it. “Do
you want a catcher?”
Jessie did give
a response, and a potent one at that: a mitt thrown right at my chest. “All right!” she said, savoring the
moment. She put on her announcer’s
voice: “It’s all come down to this, folks: the Yankees and the Pirates are tied
9-9 in the final game of the World Series.
If the Pirates can get a run across, they’ll win it all.” The set-up sounded rather familiar to me, but
I had some trouble piecing it together.
Then: “And up to the plate comes number 9, Bill Mazeroski.”
“Hang on,” I
said; I caught myself waving my arms as if I were asking the ump for
timeout. “Why are you Ralph Terry
here? I thought you were a Pirates fan.”
“Exactly!” she
said with electricity. “Hey, if I can
strike out Maz, then I can get everybody.”
Squatting back
down, I had to admire her passion and reasoning there. Clearly, the Pirates ran through her
blood. The organization needed fans like
that, and I wasn’t sure there were that many left.
After sending
one into the dirt—“Ach,” she said, “I tried getting him to chase a slider”—Jessie
stood perfectly still. Just like before,
as a matter of fact. I saw her face,
those many muscles controlling expression, going through the exact same process
as before: stoicism, terror, smugness. I
saw her bring the baseball up to her chest and take a deep sigh.
She was bringing
the high heat. And Maz was about to send
it over the left-field fence.
I threw down two
fingers. She threw the ball, leaving me
to hope that she saw them in time.
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