Short Story: "Foul ball" To put it kindly, Bill Renaldo was a man of limited ambition. Once, he’d had quite a lot, aiming to be— at different stages in life— a veterinarian (fourth grade), a Temptations-style backup singer (junior high), and an architect (sophomore year college). But somewhere in his twenties, his admirable reach exceeded his inadequate grasp, and he settled gently into a career as a high school science teacher. In lower moments late at night, when the dead thrills of old pursuits arose to haunt him, he did his best to assuage his disappointment: while no great shakes, at least his job levied no crippling stress on him, afforded him the opportunity to do a small amount of good for the future of the world, and left him free to pursue his last quest. Which was to catch a foul ball at a baseball game. Not much of a goal, as quests go, but it was the last avenue into which he had channeled his fading drive. This is not to suggest that he was monomanic about it. He had a few good friends and a reasonable social life (although recently split from his longtime girlfriend Rita). He volunteered at a local soup kitchen one weekend a month, and donated a generous share of his limited income to a variety of environmental causes. But with summers off, and no family to support (his only son from a short-lived teenage marriage was grown, and thought of his father more as a mildly eccentric uncle), he was free to attend close to forty games a season at Yankee Stadium — a perfectly respectable activity for a fifty-eight year old male. He dutifully brought his worn Rawlings Brooks Robinson model glove to each game, and doggedly pursued his quarry. Bill was never quite sure what the specific appeal of catching a ball hit into the stands held to his soul, but he recognized its omnipresence throughout his life, and long ago surrendered doubts as to its significance. But it may have started at age eight, when his father took him to his first baseball game. It was the first major event he could remember, a rite of passage he’d remember in later years comparable to a bar mitzvah. After four years of demonstrated attention to televised games, his father determined the boy ready to attend a game in person, and secured two tickets to the Yankees home opener of 1969. Barely able to contain his excitement when the day came, he sat patiently in the front seat of his father’s Volkswagen, waiting for the elder Renaldo to join him. When the old man arrived, he smiled at the youngster and asked him: “Where’s yer glove?” The boy didn’t understand. “I should bring my glove? Why?” “To catch a foul ball...” “You mean they let you keep it?” “Only if you catch it...” From that day, he was hooked. He didn’t get a ball that day, or the next game he attended, or the next year, or any year after that. In fact, after 40 years of faithful baseball allegiance, he hadn’t even come close. But grant him his perseverance: he was still at it. Someday, the universe would acknowledge his faith and bestow on him his reward. ————————————————— There are rules in regard to catching a baseball hit into the stands. If a member of the opposing team hits a home run, the retrieved ball must be thrown back onto the field. If the retriever forgets this rule and attempts to keep the ball, he or she will be reminded in no uncertain terms by a stadium full of fans until compliance is achieved. There were occasional exceptions allowed: for example, no one was going toss back a home run ball in a year in which a player was challenging a season or career record. Likewise, if a fan was brave enough to demonstrate allegiance to the visiting squad (like wearing that team’s jersey) amidst a bleacherful of loyal home teamers, that fan was, after proper ribbing, allowed to keep his prize. Bill didn’t need to worry about home run balls. His regular seat, Section 17, Row B, Seat 2, was in foul territory, on the right field side and a row back from the field. On the rare occasions he did sit in a section in fair territory, he brought another ball with him. That would be the one he’d throw back if required to do so. No use in taking any chances. The rules regarding the competition to catch a foul ball were less enunciated, yet unconsciously understood among and agreed to by the combatants. At the moment of the ball’s arrival, all civility was suspended. As long as you could be determined to be going for the ball (much like the interference rule in football), any indignity, incidental injury, or spilled beer was acceptable. And yet once the scramble was over and the ball secured, good cheer was to be instantly restored. A victor could hand the ball to the vanquished for examination, and be assured that it would be returned without question. Bill liked that part. It was like a presidential election in microcosm: you could fight with all the vitriol at your disposal, but once the contest was done, winner and loser stand side by side at the inauguration, equally important participants within the grand scope of the game. ————————————————— After work, Rodney Hegel usually met up with Bill at the Bullpen, a local bar that catered primarily to baseball fans, old men, and whatever other clientele could stand the tacky decor. Rodney had known Bill since 1987, when Rodney came to work at the high school where Bill taught physics and chemistry to generally disinterested seniors. Rodney, an electrical engineer by education, headed up the facilities maintenance department, and saw to it that the school’s physical plant ran well-oiled and efficiently. It was a job well beneath his abilities, but he appreciated a position that provided financial security for his wife and three children and demanded little in the way of heart and soul. It left those things free to give to his true passion: a saxophone inherited from his grandfather, Franklin “Socks” Hegel, a legend of the Harlem jazz scene of the 1940s. And it was in his comfortable suburban basement that Rodney blew out his flatted-fifth prayers to Bird, Trane, and Grandpa. So it seemed that whatever Rodney was, Bill wasn’t: a family man, serious, committed, grounded, with substantial depth in reservoir to draw upon when the muse called. Bill felt slight in comparison: unattached, vaguely adolescent, and somewhat adrift. But whatever differentiated the two men, it didn’t prevent them from being good friends, and baseball was the bedrock of that friendship. Over good scotch (Rodney) and lite beers (Bill), and under whatever game was being broadcast from the bar’s one small television, they would plow through baseball discussions that the measured pace of the game seemed designed to accommodate: era comparisons, yesterday’s highlights, stratospheric salaries, hopeful players, hapless managers, bad calls, and worse trades. Where they agreed, they saluted each other’s genius; where they differed, they questioned each other’s sanity. It was as perfect a relationship as two middle-aged men in a bar were likely to forge. Now, it was April, Opening Day was tomorrow, and it was a good year to be a fan: the Yankees, both men’s favorite team since boyhood, seemed poised to regain the form that would deliver New York a World Series championship. The team was strong up the middle of the diamond, and the pitching staff, full of young, strong arms, seemed sure to remain solid. And to add to all that, now there was Robo. Roberto “Robo” Hildalgo had begun spring training this year an unknown quantity foisted on the team by an enthusiastic Venezuelan scout, and emerged by late March as the team’s long-sought answer to their recurring vacancy at second base. In position, he was sure-handed and smooth fielding, displaying a depth of both instinct and instruction no one could seem to trace. At the plate, he protected the strike zone with a veteran’s tack, spraying line-drive singles to every field that, because of his speed, became doubles almost as often as not. And if he was the answer to a manager’s prayer, Robo was moreover a team publicist’s dream. He revealed himself, albeit through halting English, to be self-effacing, hardworking, and a man of quiet, deep faith. When the Yankees broke with standard practice and signed the rookie to a multiyear, multi-million dollar contract, he took his signing bonus, forewent the usual spending sprees on cars and jewelry, and bought his hometown back in Venezuela a new church. “A gift for God”, he said at the church’s groundbreaking. “A gift from God,” the Yankee owner countered. The New York papers took to just calling Robo “the Gift.” ————————————————— Rodney Hegel, with a house and family obligations to tend, didn’t get out to games much anymore. But Bill did, and Bill couldn’t wait to see Robo play in person at the Stadium. “You going to the game tomorrow?” asked Rodney. “Yep.” “Bringing yer glove again?” “’F’course.” Rodney laughed. “You’re a strange man...” “Everybody’s gotta have a hobby,” Bill responded. “You know what’s gonna happen if you catch one? You’ll have to give it to some kid. The crowd’ll demand it. Big lug like you keeping a ball fer yerself at little Johnny’s expense...” Bill struck a pose of mock defense. “Let the little bastard try and take it from me...” “How ’bout I just buy you a ball?” Rodney offered. “It’s not the same...” “How come?” Bill took a long draught, and leaned back. Stroking his chin like a B-movie philosopher, he began: “Because, if the ball comes, it will have come from There. The Other Side. We’re only Here. But the game only happens between the white lines. It’s like it only exists There...” “If you start yapping about ‘building a field’ and ‘He’ll Come,’ I’m outta here...” Rodney chastened. “Nah, none of that ‘Church of Baseball’ crap. I hate that shit. I love baseball, but it’s just a friggin’ game after all. But just the same, I’ll never be There. I’m only Here. So maybe the ball crosses over the barrier between, and I can hold on to a little piece of There right Here. Kind of like proof that There really exists.” Rodney dropped his gaze to the bar surface. “I don’t know if you drink too much, or not enough...” ————————————————— Opening Day carries a feeling of awakening from a long winter’s sleep. Baseball fans are an overly romantic lot, but it seems to the true believers that this first game in April is the time to rediscover a love left dormant through the heartless winter. The Yankees are a team rich in heritage, which they dutifully trot out on any such occasion. Bill would confess to no one but himself that all this pomp bored him slightly. But after awhile, at least for a regular like Bill, it began to get a little rote, like empty genuflecting at a mass. Just get to the game already... So after a surfeit of ceremonies, songs, and ceremonial first pitches, the game finally began. The season was here. ————————————————— Today’s opponent, the Boston Red Sox, quickly made things interesting by scoring three runs in the first. The Yankees held fast until the fifth, when Robo Hildalgo, true to his growing legend, tripled off the left-center wall, and stole home off the hard-throwing yet inattentive Red Sox lefthander, Randy Tillinger. Thus ignited, the Yankees came forth with a bloop single from their veteran shortstop and a home run from their near-geriatic right fielder, and tied the score at three. It remained knotted thus until the seventh, due in large part to two spectacular fielding plays by Hildalgo. Bill thought for sure he’d caught a glint of gold off the second baseman’s glove. A gift indeed... ————————————————— Bill had seen too many movies to be surprised when his moment came, but damn if time didn’t slow to a crawl when it happened. In the bottom of the seventh inning, Robo Hildalgo was up, batting right-handed against Tillinger. The Red Sox ace seemed to be gaining velocity as the game progressed, and Robo was having trouble getting around on the inside heat. On four straight pitches he failed to direct the pitch fairly, twice missing completely and twice having his bat broken when the ball struck the bat on the handle. Hildalgo reset in the batter’s box with a new, dark-cherry-stained bat in tow, and Tillinger delivered his best changeup high and outside, to play off the memory of his first four fastballs. Hildalgo was expecting another inside fastball, began his swing too early, and was left waiting as the ball wafted towards him at 15 miles an hour less than the pitches that preceded it. Nonetheless, Hildalgo was able to call upon his remarkable bat control, and wait long enough in the strike zone to catch a piece of the ball with the end of his bat, and send the ball fluttering towards Section 17. Bill caught sight of the ball immediately, quickly and quietly reckoning that it would be his, and his alone. To his right, the loudmouth from Westchester and his long-suffering wife had left early to beat the traffic. To his left, the elderly lady with the support hose was beginning to duck comically out of the way. The row in front of him was completely empty; no doubt these were corporately purchased seats for whom no empty suits could be found today. There would be no competition for the ball. The ball continued in mock cinematic style towards Bill. It arched to a height of about 30 feet -- high enough so that it wouldn’t be lost against a white shirt in the opposite stands, low enough not to be lost against the sky or produce an inordinately rapid fall and thus make for a tougher catch. Just to be sure, a small cloud moved just then to block the sun temporarily and cut any potential glare. The ground around Bill’s seat was clean, dry, and free of trash. The sun had evaporated a soda spilled in the early innings, and the residual tackiness would help ensure his footing. His shoelaces were tightly tied. His glove, as it had been for decades, was well-oiled, supple, and enveloped his left hand. The glove’s pocket was vacant, formed, and ready to receive. As the ball took its final trajectory downward, Bill would have sworn he could have counted the stitches, or read the commissioner’s signature on it, if he had chosen to do so. The noise of the crowd faded to silence. He was inhabiting this expanded time-space with full awareness, crystalline consciousness, perfect clarity. This moment, eternal, became him. Then, finally, the ball was his. It landed softly in the glove’s pocket, and spun down to be still. He followed it there with his eyes, and withdrew it from the glove with his right hand. Perhaps because it had existed only in an idealized bright white state in Bill’s mind for over thirty years, the ball’s slightly tan color surprised him at first, before he remembered that every ball was rubbed down before game use with Delaware River mud to remove the sheen, thus making it easier for the players to grip. But since this one had been introduced into play immediately before it was hit, the ball’s only real flaw was a round blemish approximately one-half inch in diameter, dark cherry in color, which evidenced the manner with which it was dispatched towards Bill. For years, Bill had watched in mild disgust as every lummox who caught a foul ball made an exaggerated show for the television cameras, cavorting like a frat boy at a kegger, and was determined not to imitate this measure of bad taste. He offered a slight tip of his cap to those around him who acknowledged his modest feat, and turned to find his seat. And that’s when he saw the kid, that damnable kid -- a doe-eyed nightmare come to life. Bill stood frozen as his gaze caught sight of the sprog, looking like a refugee from a Little Orphan Annie comic. Undoubtedly, the kid’s name was Johnny. Or Timmy. Or Beaver. Whatever. In the span of a second, Bill looked at the ball and the kid, and the ball, and the kid, and the ball and the kid, and the ball, and the kid. Then, as if scripted, the scenario Rodney foretold the night before at the Bullpen played forth. Five or six rows back, out of the mouth of some slack-jawed clown sprawled over four seats like he’d fallen there out of a plane, came the words: “Hey! Give the kid the ball!” The call was immediately picked up by a chorus of fools around him. “Yeah, give it to the kid, old man!” “Come on, dude, let the kid have it!” “Yo, big man, whadda ’bout da kid?” So the dilemma was now before him. He could keep the ball, for sure, and suffer only a few moments of ignominy from idiots he didn’t know, go home, and have his secret trophy. It could be his, if only he could be strong. But he wasn’t strong; he’d never been. He hadn’t been strong when Rita left, he hadn’t been strong when he’d been wrongly passed over as head of the science department at work, and he hadn’t been strong when the neighborhood kids held his head in a toilet in fourth grade. He gave the ball a farewell squeeze, and tossed it to the kid. The point was to catch a foul ball, not keep it. Right? Back in the game, Tillinger delivered his next pitch, a fastball low and away, which Hildalgo caught squarely off the end of the bat this time. The ball lined sharply foul, in the same direction as its predecessor, towards Section 17, Row B, Seat 2, although this one traveled at a considerably higher velocity. Bill Renaldo caught his second foul ball of the day, and of his life, although this time, he caught it with his right temple instead of his gloved left hand. He would be dead before he hit the ground. But as he fell, he had a final thought, which froze his countenance, as death took hold, in an expression less pained and more quiescent, like a great mystery had finally been revealed and understood. But whatever that thought was, it would remain unknown and unheard, by Rita, by Bill’s students, by a churchful of praying Venezuelans, by Rodney, or by a stadium full of fans, who stood by in shocked silence as the ambulance crew removed the body of a man whose life’s ambition had been so recently fulfilled. •