Flash Willis waited in the on-deck circle as Freddie Garcia stepped up to the plate with two on and two out, bottom of the ninth, three runs down, with the championship on the line. Come on, Freddie, get on any ol’ way y’can – just gimme a chance to bat again.
The old man remembered it well as he left his apartment one agonizing step at a time for his daily limp to Independence Park. The pain in his legs might have been too much to bear were it not for the company of all the other aches he’d acquired with age. “If I’m going to suffer anyway, I might as well suffer the pains of living,” he’d explained to the doc whenever it was suggested he should take it easy. “Whatta you want I should do, sit inna chair stare’n out the window all day long? Besides, I leave it all behind watch’n them kids runnin’ the bases at the park.”
Freddie Garcia turned and gave him the thumbs up. “I’ll get on. You just drive us in.”
It had been a frustrating day for Willis, the Titans’ best hitter. All day long, the Giants had pitched around him. Twice they had walked him. The one time he’d gotten something to hit, the speedy Willis had driven in one run with a triple and scored the other when his slide kicked the ball out of the third baseman’s glove. Now he was depending on Freddie Garcia to give him another opportunity.
Freddie took two balls and a strike before the pitcher left one hanging on the outside corner. WHACK—the ball sailed over the first baseman’s head and down the right field line. By the time the ball had been fielded and fired back in, one run had scored, and the tying runners stood at second and third.
Finally, after a steady plod, the old man reached the corner of Independence and Grace to survey the traffic rushing past; and the stage was set. It would take but a simple base hit to bring the speedy Freddie Garcia home with the tying run. Or, wondered Willis, should I go for the downs and end it all right then and there? For certain he would get his pitch if he was just patient. The Giant’s pitcher wouldn’t want to put the potential winning run on base with a free pass. This time the pitcher would have to give him something to hit.
As the old man considered his options at the intersection, several Giants gathered at the pitcher’s mound to consider theirs. The discussion dragged on; the ump took several steps towards them and hollered, “OK, that’s enough. You can all discuss your dinner plans in the dugout. Let’s play ball!”
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With that, the Giants took their positions, and Willis glanced at the right fielder before stepping into the batter’s box. The fielder had cheated over toward the foul line. Willis glanced at the other two outfielders and noted that they also had shifted to the right. They’re gonna pitch me outside, Willis determined. When the pitcher took his sign and nodded to the catcher, Willis decided to crowd the plate and poke the ball over the second baseman rather than pulling it to left. However, to the batter’s ultimate frustration, the catcher stepped out wide of the plate and snared ball one. It was an intentional walk. They were taking the bat out of his hands.
Willis couldn’t believe it. He didn’t know whether to feel anger or honor. They so respected his bat that they were willing to put him on base, even though he represented the winning run should he score. “Ball two.” Willis considered reaching out and trying to poke one anyway. It was, after all, just another pitch off the outside corner. “Ball three.” but that would be the ultimate in selfishness, and what if he failed? How stupid would that be? “Ball four.” Better to simply suck it up and take his base. Willis tossed his bat aside and jogged down to first base, where he turned and clapped his hands in encouragement to the next batter, Muscles Marinara.
Marinara hadn’t had a hit all day. He was always trying to kill the ball. The pitcher, feeding him a constant diet of junk, obviously felt more comfortable pitching to him than to Willis. “Come on, Muscles,” Willis yelled, “just a hit—just a simple single’s all we need here. Don’t try t’kill it!”
At the corner, the old man stood waiting for the light to change from green to red and back again so he could better time his break. He could feel his frustration building. The traffic whizzed past like that first pitch, a high heater, to Marinara just outside the strike zone. “Ball one!” called out the ump. The second was a slider that Marinara started for, then checked his swing just in time. “Ball two!” called the ump. Then, a fastball snapped past him. “Stee-rike one!” mocked the ump with a sharp jab of his right hand.
As the light in front of the old man turned from green to red, Marinara stepped out of the box and glanced back at the ump as if to say, “A bit outside, wasn’t it?” A sharp look from the ump put him back in his place, and he stepped back in ready and waiting. Anything close probably would have seen the anxious batter swinging away at it, but the pitcher broke one off into the dirt, and the catcher had to make an acrobatic stop to prevent the runners from advancing. The ump simply held up both hands; three fingers showing on one, a single digit on the other.
“Be ready, Muscles, he’s gotta come in with one now!” Freddie yelled out. And, ready he was—too ready, swinging from the heels at the pitch, pulling it high and deep down the left-field line. Like the rest of the crowd, the left fielder stood and watched as the ball left the park, foul by several feet. A loud groan went up as Marinara kicked the dirt in frustration and returned to the batter’s box with a determined growl on his face.
Full count, two outs, gotta get a good jump with the pitch, thought Willis. “Stay within yourself!” he yelled to the batter. “Just meet it and it’ll go.” But, Willis knew that loud foul had given Muscles the blood lust. He’d be swinging for all he was worth at just about anything. “Don’t hurt yourself,” laughed Willis hoping humor would calm the big man. “Just a single, you put one through and I’ll bring it home,” the speedster promised. “Just make contact; ya never know what’ll happen!”
As the pitcher took his stretch, the old man studied the traffic, looking for an opening. Independence had a short red, and he’d need a good jump to make it across before the light turned green again. Watching, watching, the pitcher winding, there it was—his opportunity—and he was off and running, hobbling, cane tippity-tapping towards the distant oasis of bases, the pitch in the air—on its way, Willis taking off for second, screaming, “Garcia, get going!” Marinara swinging, Willis nearing second, Muscles making contact—a high lazy pop fly to right center, Willis’ heart failing at the sight, an old man limping across the intersection, the right and center fielders converging, each of them calling, Willis turning the corner—flying like the wind, the old man dodging a car turning right on red, indecision—the ball bouncing, “Gogogogogogogo!” screaming Willis at Garcia, on Independence—lights changing, the center fielder snatching at the ball—firing, Willis steaming through the stop sign at third, racing the throw home, closing on Garcia, the old man straining for the curb—the traffic moving, the catcher tensing, Garcia striding over the plate—tying it up, Willis on his butt, the ball thudding into the catcher’s mitt, Willis sliding under it, the crowd cheering, the umpire flattening out both hands palms down, the old man stumbling up and onto the sidewalk past a gaggle of amused teens, catching his breath, an old Titan suffering ignorant sneers, “Whatta old coot—ain’t he a hoot!”
In a moment, now frozen in time, old Willis catches his breath—gives ’m the once over. Whatta they know? Time flies—‘round the bases, and we all lose in the end —‘cept for our memories—ah, those memories. With that thought in mind, the old speedster straightens up, ignoring the signals from his back and, standing tall, doffs his cap to the kids with a wry smile, leaving them more than a little bit edgy. “Enjoy it while you can, children. Yesterday, I was you—tomorrow … ” Then, moving on, Old Man Willis finds his place to, once more, lose his blues at the ol’ ball game.
