The Baseball Scene
By Kristen Miller
If this was
a movie, my looking over there at the stands to see if my dad was here yet or
not, and finding “not” to be the correct description, would be indicative of my
father’s being an irresponsible parent, a workaholic, or something like
that. My character in the movie would be
pissed off at him or at least disappointed that he wasn’t here to see me pitch
in the region championship. But this isn’t a movie and I’m not pissed off. I know he’s probably stuck in
I just ran out here to the mound for the start of the bottom of the fifth inning. The game has been tight defensively; Eagle’s Landing’s team is really good. That’s why they’re in the playoffs, I suppose. But since both our team, the Mt. Zion Bulldogs, and theirs (creatively named “The Eagles”) are playing great defense today, the game has been going by pretty quick. By the time Dad makes it here from downtown, it might be over.
I play baseball because of my dad. I’m good at it, too. I’m a starting pitcher on my school’s varsity team and I’m only a sophomore. I’m here now because of all the time my dad has put into practicing with me. Two years from now, I’m going to be able to go to college on a full scholarship, probably any college I want, since not only am I good at baseball, but my grades are great. A scout from UGA came up to me a few weeks ago after a game to mention that he had come to watch Mike Hardy and had noticed me and was really impressed with me and would be keeping a close eye on me and such. My dad is thrilled to death about that. He used to pitch for UGA. I can hear him now, bragging to all his friends at work that his son is only fifteen but UGA already has their eye on him.
The first guy up to hit for the Eagles this inning is a power hitter. This is his third at-bat, and both of the other two times he was up, he damn near hit the ball over the fence. My only job right now is to get it in the strike zone, but keep it out of that low and away area that makes for a good home run pitch. I wound up and pitched the first one high and inside. He swung and connected, but popped it up foul. I put the next pitch in the same place, and he popped it foul again. I decided to go with the curve ball on this last pitch. It’s not perfect yet, but Dad and I have practiced it enough that I’m getting people to go for it at least most of the time. The guy swung for it and missed completely. Strike three, he was out.
The older I get, the more I play. When I was six, it was March through May in the rec department league. By the time I was nine, it was rec league in the spring and traveling team in the summer. That’s some of my dad’s busiest time at work, since he’s a PR guy for the Braves, but he always managed to chaperone at least a few of the trips each season. I loved every minute of those trips. To have your dad, who was a pitcher at UGA and works for the Atlanta Braves, hanging out with you, that’s a really big deal when you’re nine or ten.
When I was thirteen, there was yet another season: fall ball. This extended my baseball season from February (start of spring practice for rec league and then high school JV when I was in eighth grade) to November (end of fall league championships). This meant I saw him about as much as I saw him when he actually lived with us, if not more. And most of the major holidays occur in that two to three months off, so I see him a bunch then, too.
While I waited for the next batter to step in, I looked over at the bleachers again. As predicted, there was my dad. He gave me a thumbs up for the curve ball. It had been one of my better ones.
Dad has my whole life planned out for me right now. He’ll talk to me seriously about the benefits of going to college first before playing pro ball, no matter how much money they offer me to sign out of high school. I’m still two fucking years away from having to make that decision. And it never even occurs to him that I might not like to play pro ball. Sounds kind of arrogant, I know, to be like, “Yeah, I know I’m good enough to go pro, but I’m not sure I really want to.” Who would pass up an opportunity like that?
The next batter was no threat to hitting any home runs, so I gave him a fastball right in the strike zone. If he got a piece of it, I would let the defense do their job. He did connect, but sent a fly ball straight to the center fielder.
I don’t love baseball as much as my dad does. It would kill him to know that, since he’s so fond of pointing out how lucky I am that I’m good, that he was nowhere near as good as I am, and so on. But riddle me this: does being good at something obligate me to do it whether I enjoy it or not?
The next batter was one of four people on his team to have gotten on base this game. He had gotten on twice. Both of his at bats, he had gotten on base by sending line drives up the gap between the short stop and third baseman. He was the one run that the Eagles had scored. Our only run was the solo homer that Mike had hit in the third inning. I can’t let this guy get on base this time, because the guy on deck is good at hitting into the gap as well.
The current batter, a small, thin guy with red hair and freckles, came up looking confident. He was probably older than me but I couldn’t help thinking of him as a kid; he looked so much more like one than I did. The kid smiled at me a little as he took a few practice swings. Cocky little bastard. It was really tempting to bean him. Maybe that’s what he was going for. But I couldn’t let him on base. So I started off by blowing a fastball right by him. He swung at it, and swung hard, but he missed. The smile went away. Kenny returned the ball to me and as I stepped back up to the rubber, I decided to give the batter a smile of my own. He clearly didn’t like it.
I wound up and pitched again. Another fastball, right up the center, and another swing and miss for the cocky little bastard whose smile was long gone. He was taking this very seriously. If he didn’t get on base, his team’s chances of winning pretty much gone, as the weaker part of their batting order was on its way up. This kid would look at it as his own fault if his team lost now. He would carry the weight of that loss on his shoulders, probably until next year’s season when he might hit in a few runs that won them a game one day and finally feel as though he had redeemed himself.
Did I want to win badly enough to make this kid feel so horrible? Or I guess the real question would be, did I want to make my father happy badly enough to make the kid feel so horrible?
I pitched my last pitch. I probably should have gone with a changeup since he probably had my fastball timed a little better by now, but I wanted my dad to enjoy my striking him out on three fastballs. Fastballs are always more impressive than changeups. I made the right decision, at least as far as my team winning goes, because the guy swung and missed a third time. He slunk back to his team’s dugout, kicking angrily at the ground on his way there.
I trotted over to our own dugout, giving my dad a wave as I ran. He was grinning at me. “Nice, David,” he said to me when I was close enough that he didn’t have to shout.
“Thanks,” I said.
I took my seat at the end of the bench beside Todd and set my glove down under the it. It’s my dad’s glove, actually, the one he used when he pitched for UGA. He gave it to me at the beginning of the rec league season when I was ten, the first time that it wasn’t too big for me.
Another question: if I’m worried about if it’s important enough to me to make my father happy that I’m willing to make that kid who just struck out so unhappy, why don’t I wonder if it’s important enough to me to make him happy that I make myself so unhappy? God, that sounds confusing. It is confusing.
“Hey, Todd?” I asked. “Why do you play baseball?”
Todd gave me a suspicious look. He probably thought that this would turn into one of those weird questions I like to ask people while we’re sitting here. Last game I had asked him if he considered himself a Froot Loop purist, one who believes that Froot Loops were a much better cereal when they consisted only of the red, orange, yellow, and purple loops, before the addition of the green and blue which, in my opinion, makes them much less aesthetically pleasing. A few innings ago, I asked him what his position on pudding was. Sometimes he actually answers my questions. Other times, he responds only with, “Dude, you’re fucking weird.”
“I’m serious,” I added. “I really want to know.”
Todd shrugged. “Cause I love it, I guess.”
“I am David’s total lack of surprise.”
“Well, you asked. What was wrong with that answer?”
“It’s a goddamn cliché, that’s what.”
“Well, it’s true. I wish I could do this for the rest of my life and get paid for it. Nothing would be better than that. So why do you play?”
It seemed wrong to tell him that it was so my dad would spend time with me, or so I could make my dad happy. So I just said, “I don’t know, really.”
“You must like it, at least. You’re too good.”
“It’s okay, I guess. But I definitely wouldn’t use the word ‘love.’”
“What do you love?” he asked.
“Movies. Acting.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. That play last week and all, right?”
I nodded.
I wish I had more time to act. Because of baseball, I’m usually limited to
just acting in the movies I make with my friends Dan and Lizzy. I took an acting class as an elective this
past fall, and the teacher Mr. Harris was really disappointed that I didn’t try
out for Little Shop of Horrors, the
drama club’s fall production. But I had
fall ball, either practice or a game nearly every day of the week. I really wanted to play the part of Orin
Scrivello, the crazy dentist guy that Steve Martin played in the movie. But I had to pass it up. Dan played
“All right,” Todd said. “I’ve got a question for you. If you didn’t have to worry about money and could do anything you wanted for the rest of your life, what would you do? Cause like I said, I would play baseball.”
I’ve asked myself this question many times, and answered him without hesitation. “Be in movies. Make them. Write them. Something like that. Even hold a fucking boom mike for the rest of my life.”
Todd grinned. “You’re really in the wrong place, aren’t you?”
The inning ended without us scoring or even getting someone on base. So with the score still tied one to one, I went back out to pitch what I hoped would be one last inning.
Want to know about my dad and movies? He’ll go into the video store and be all like, “Do you have that one with that guy who was in that movie last year?” I mean, come on. Three years ago, he said his favorite movie of the summer was Wild Wild West. I was barely twelve at the time and even I knew it was shit.
The first Eagle up to bat was the one I’d been worried about last inning. He was probably one of the best hitters on their team, another little guy. He had about two inches on the cocky redhead from last inning. Kenny and I argued back and forth, him signaling and me shaking my head no. This is one of the more interesting aspects of baseball – trying to outsmart the batter. What would he expect? I argued my way with Kenny back to the fastball. Turned out this is what the batter was expecting. Right there, on my first pitch, he swung and knocked a line drive that zinged right past me and right past the outstretched glove of the second baseman. It bounced its way halfway across centerfield until Mike scooped it up and chunked it back at the first baseman. The runner was already safe, safe by a mile.
Well, while my dad was probably ripping his hair out over that one, that kid’s dad was probably pretty proud of him right then. And since baseball is probably way more important to that kid than it is to me, maybe that’s a good thing. But I still couldn’t look over at Dad.
I’ve tried to make my dad understand the movie thing. When Unbreakable came out on DVD, I was all excited about showing it to him cause I figured it had all the mainstream stuff he likes but was also meaningful and an example of actual filmmaking. I thought we could talk about it after it was over. Well, we get done watching it and I ask him what he thinks and he’s like, “Well… It was ok, I guess. I get the whole superhero thing and all, but couldn’t they have put some better action sequences in it?”
I am David’s wounded pride.
I didn’t wait for Kenny’s signal on the next batter, I just wound up and threw. I’m not sure if it would even qualify as a fastball. This batter, who was not even that good a hitter, was all over it and pounded it deep into left field. I turned and watched it sail away, with what could best be described as disinterest. Stu, the left fielder, sprinted back toward the fence, turned, stuck out his glove, and caught it. He made the long throw back to Todd at second base, who in turn wheeled around to keep the runner on first. Once he was sure the batter was staying put, he tossed the ball back to me.
“That’s right, buddy,” my dad was yelling, trying to put a positive spin on the situation. “Just throw strikes. Let the defense do its job.” I knew I’d heard that somewhere before.
Kenny was standing behind home plate with his mask off. He was scowling at me. He knew that last pitch was shit. I was that close to giving up a home run, and that very well could have been the game. I guess even if I don’t care if we win, it’s not fair to be up here, in such control of the game, and ruin it for everyone else. I held a finger up at Kenny and nodded, hoping he would get that I meant I would straighten it out. I stepped back up onto the mound, looking over at the runner on first, keeping an eye on his lead. He was a sneaky little guy. He’d probably try to steal. Well, I was going to get him.
Putting my acting skills to work, I gave him a look that said I didn’t think he’d do it. It’s hard to describe that look. Mostly, I think, you just try to look confident. Then I turned my head back toward the batter. I began the wind-up. Then, like lightning, I stepped toward first and threw.
The runner had indeed tried to steal when I turned back to the batter. And now he was hung up between first and second. Caleb and Todd threw back and forth and closed in on him till Todd was able to tag him out.
“Great job, guys!” I could hear my dad yell. He had worked with me on that move for hours and hours the summer I was twelve. He makes me practice it over and over. A great pitcher doesn’t just pitch, he also keeps the runners back as far as he can. He had nothing to do with the acting part of it, though, and that’s what makes it work.
With the bases now empty again, I stepped back up onto the mound. Kenny signaled for the curve ball. I nodded and pitched. Miracle of miracles, this one curved, too. The batter swung and missed.
“Good job, David!” Dad yelled.
Since I was on a roll, Kenny signaled for the curve again. I figured, why not? And this one, too, had a nice curve on it. Totally faked the batter out – his bat got nothing but air. To think I was finally getting the pitch consistent.
In February, I showed Dad one of the movies Dan and Lizzy and I had made. Did he tell me he liked it? No. He asked how much time we’d spent on it. “We spent most of our weekends on it since November,” I replied. He told me that was probably why I hadn’t gotten my curveball right yet. I know that sounds harsh, and he probably didn’t mean for it to sound the way it did, but that was a moment of clarity for me if nothing else. Everything, ultimately, is about baseball.
For this pitch, potentially my last pitch, Kenny called for the fastball. I nodded and delivered what felt like the best fastball I’d ever thrown. Probably the fastest. The batter, who realized that the whole game ultimately came down to what he did with this pitch, swung in desperation. He missed. The ball smacked nicely into Kenny’s mitt, and our bleachers erupted with cheers.
“Beautiful pitch, kiddo!” I could hear my dad shout over all the rest.
My team jogged back into the dugout. I couldn’t look over at my dad this time.
“Caleb, you’re up. David, on deck,” one of the coaches said.
I tossed my dad’s glove down into its place beneath the bench, grabbed a helmet and bat, and headed out to the on-deck circle.
Mom is much more a fan of my interest in movies and acting than she is of baseball because the movies and acting are things she actually gets. I admire her for coming to as many of my games as she has. Up until the last couple years, she would try to talk to me about it, too, telling me my kick was looking better or suggest that I swing at the wrists a little more when I bat. I know she wouldn’t give a shit about baseball if I wasn’t playing it. She only knows what she knows about it from being married to a baseball junky like Dad for eight years.
Caleb took the first pitch. It was a ball.
Mom knows that the whole baseball
thing is totally for Dad at this point.
She’s the one who found out for me that this college in town,
Caleb nailed the next pitch, dropping it into the gap between the infield and the outfield. He got on first. It was my turn to hit.
It was really hard to do school, baseball, and the play. The play is hard to do because there’s so much blocking to learn. You have to know exactly when to walk in and out of each door, and there’s a whole lot of walking in and out. I was exhausted. Dad was mad at Mom for letting me do it because it didn’t give me any time outside of baseball practice to practice. If I wanted to be in the majors some day, I needed to make sure I didn’t have any distractions. He put it more diplomatically than this, but that’s still basically what he was saying.
I wanted to hit a home run. I didn’t want to hit it so that we would win. That would mean that we had to keep playing, possibly all the way through the state tournament, and if we did well there, nationals. That would be less time off for me before the season with the traveling team started. The only reason I wanted to hit a home run right now was so that the game wouldn’t go into extra innings and I would be able to go over to Dan’s and work on our script some more before he and Lizzy and I went to the movies.
I took the first pitch. It was an obvious ball.
Noises Off! went
great. We did four shows last week: Thursday,
Friday, and Saturday nights and one on Sunday afternoon. Thursday and Friday I had to go straight from
practice to the
The next pitch was a strike. I took it anyway. It was high and inside, not a home run pitch at all. I didn’t have to look over at the bleachers to know my dad was in “ripping his hair out” mode again. Why on earth would I take a perfectly good strike? I’m a better hitter than that.
My dad
didn’t come to the play. The Braves had
a road trip that week, and I understand that.
But I also know he’s skipped out on the tail end of a few road trips to
come see me pitch before. Much of what
he does he can do with a laptop and a cell phone if he has to. He’s told me so. I remember one time last year I heard him
pacing behind our team’s dugout, shouting into his cell phone during the middle
of one of my games. At one point he
yelled into the phone, “No, I’m not in Cinicinnati, I’m in
Finally, my pitch. Low and outside. I made a nice clean swing and connected. I knew as soon as I felt how it came off the bat that it was good. It was going over the fence. I didn’t even watch it as I ran.
The cheers
I heard from our side confirmed for me that I had just hit the game- winning
home run and that we were regional champions, defeating Eagle’s
When I rounded third and headed for home, I looked over at my dad again. He was standing in his place at the bleachers, fists raised in the air, yelling along with everyone else, a huge smile on his face. I’d never seen him look more proud.
If only he could have stood in the audience at the Clayton State auditorium last week and had that look on his face there.
After crossing home plate, I received lots of high fives from my teammates and lined up with them to shake hands with the people on the other team. After that was over, as I walked back to the dugout, Todd came up behind me and clapped me on the back.
“Great job, David,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed my dad’s glove out from under the bench and headed out toward the bleachers.
Dad gave me a hug when I got there.
“I’m so proud of you David. That was a great hit. A great game.”
I handed the glove to him. He took it and looked at me, perplexed.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m giving it back to you.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve got state. That starts next week. And you’ve finally got the curve ball consistent.”
“I’m not going to play baseball any more.” People were walking away, back over toward the school’s parking lot. I had made sure I spoke softly; I didn’t want people listening in.
“I don’t understand. You love baseball.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him he was wrong. So I decided to share with him the analogy I had adapted for this purpose on my way home from the Sunday afternoon performance of Noises Off! “Look, it’s like our relationship is like a glass of water. When I was younger, the glass was smaller. It didn’t take much to fill it up, just you spending time with me and being proud of me. Now I’m older and the glass is bigger. It’s going to take more to fill it up.”
“David, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I nodded. I get that a lot. “You should go rent the movie Dogma. Then you’ll probably get it. Or at least know where it came from.” I smiled at him. I didn’t want him to think I was mad at him or something, because I wasn’t. “Thanks for coming to the game, Dad.”
I started off toward the parking lot where Todd would be waiting to give me a ride to Dan’s house. I was a few steps away and turned to look back. Dad was still standing there, holding the glove in his hands, looking down at it. I had just broken his heart. I was sure of it. But I couldn’t take it back.
I walked back over to him. “Dad?” I said.
He looked up at me. There were tears in his eyes.
“The Braves are in town this weekend, right?”
He nodded.
“Can I come visit you? Go see the game on Saturday and stay over? I’ll bring Dogma on DVD. We can watch it together. I think you’ll like it.”
He nodded again and gave me another hug.
“Did your mom tape the play?”
“All four shows.”
“Which one was the best?”
“Saturday night. It had the best crowd.”
“Can you bring that, too?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Okay. See you, kiddo.”
Instead of leaving with me, Dad sat down on the bottom bench of the bleachers and looked out at the field, still holding the glove. I walked all the way to Todd’s car without looking back, but had to look one more time as I got in. Dad was still sitting there. I wondered how much longer he would stay.
If this was a movie, this is where they would put a fade out. I would prefer a dissolve to my father with that same proud grin on his face as he finished watching the video of Noises Off!, but whether or not that would be an accurate ending remains to be seen.