The weather last Wednesday took me back. The mix of heat and humidity, the low creep of dark clouds on the horizon, never to coalescing into anything substantial. There were many similar days, of course, but, as I crossed over the La Palma bridge (over the 5 freeway), intersections in my mind were made.
Mom had signed me up for the Pinto League a few weeks prior to that day at Brookhurst Junior High. And I, only playing pick-up games here and there, was thrust into the world of formalized game play.
[I begged both my parents that I wanted to play tackle football, but there were injuries from the prior summer season, and they shied from it. I almost had my dad. But, as he was getting serious, he took the white Monte Carlo up to a park on Orangethorpe (no longer there), and he was, as burly as he was, concerned, "I didn't think they were hitting that hard." He made me think about with that statement - but I knew I could juke with the best of them. I was light and fast. My dad eyed me up and down with those light blue eyes, pulled the Carlton out of his mouth and blew out, "You're too little, guy." It would be Anaheim Pony League for me. The deal was sealed with an A&W float from one of the few in Anaheim, that was just across the street from the park.]
Mom dropped me off at try-outs a few weeks later. My mom had no clue, as I wouldn't expect her to have one, on what to bone up on before showing up in my cords and a shirt I wore way too often. There were some kids showing up that day, not a ton, but a few, that even had on glistening uniforms. Great. I settled in with the other obvious poor kids, they had a touch of surliness, and, like me, had the worn out shoes. It was a warm day, and we were using the fields between Brookhurst ("Moon") Park and Mel Gauer Elementary.
I never had a glove before: why would I? I never wore cleats. I had never even seen a baseball uniform unless it was on a KTLA weekday game of the Angels. But, here the coaches were, with clipboards. I could only imagine where they put me on the scale for pitching (non-existent), throwing (weak), running (strong), catching (meh), hitting (needs work - let's put a few exclamation marks here for good measure). The bright spot was that the ice cream stand was opened up and I, as always, knew where this was going to go. My mom had left, so I just hung around. I took in that there were a few girls. I took in that there were already cliques happening. Fun.
The coaches gave us a laundry list of items to go get. Considering the time, I'm sure it broke the bank. I got the glove, the oil - and went on to just oil that puppy up. I'd take a few weeks throwing my only ball into the netting over and over again - making the crease just right.
In due time, I was assigned to the Dodgers. It didn't take long to get gussied up for the team picture. We hadn't played a game yet. Looking around the team, it was obvious: we were the remainders. The good news was, I could work with that. Plus, there were two cute girls, including the prettiest girl in the grade at Mel Gauer - Cherie. Mon Cherie. My team picture had me with long hair and bright eyes - ready to take on the season.
The coaches took an interest in me for hitting. The running, catching and hustling were all there. So they assigned me to Center/Left, which was a smart thing to do in the long run. In the short run, they had to whip a kid afflicted with fear at a ball being slung inches from his face. But the older coach, a crotchety guy, had the idea that it would take an afternoon to do this. Boy, would I disappoint.
So, on a cool, early spring day, with long hanging clouds ominously overhead, the two coaches took what seemed like four to six hours of non-stop pitching at me. This was done directly behind the park-side of the Brookhurst Junior High gym. The tennis courts were in front of us, and we had our batter's catch pointed in that direction. Oy, the yelling. Oy, the screaming.
"Keep your eyes on the ball!"
"Stop closing your eyes when you swing!"
"Wait for it!"
"If it's bad, let it go. Don't just swing!"
Does he know, this isn't going to happen? It took me two hours of non-stop swinging to realize that I was being detained; this wasn't going to end. In essence, I smelled what the coach was cooking. Ok. I took in the last couple of hours worth of advice and put it all together. The swinging still happened. But, I kept the eyes open. I kept my form. I choked up on the bat. I kept the bat off the shoulder. I understood what my Angels did when they had their left foot lightly on the soil and they circled the bat slightly.
I learned to do all of this only because I hated the coach at that second. That was one of those 'adult' moments. Sometimes things don't change until you HATE something. A'ight. The clouds rolled in. There was coolness and a bit of drizzle. The rest of the field, which was full of kids before, had emptied out. It was me, the two coaches, and one of my fellow players that was there to catch. He wasn't getting any practice in at all.
I stared down the coach; the crazed look in his eyes was all I could see. But, I stared at the ball, felt it come to me, knew exactly where in my box it was going to go through. Crack! That ball flew. No finesse to the hit, mind you, but a solid, center drive that was easily caught. Another lesson learned. You learn, only from playing, the sound of a good hit from a bad one.
The coaches were ecstatic. But they didn't let me off of the hook. "Three more times, kid."
Crack! Miss. Miss. Crack! Miss. Miss. Miss. Crack! "Time to go home. You getting this?" I had that drag going on - the drag you get from practicing all day. "Yeah." I walked away but turned again just to see the coaches pick up the equipment, the dark clouds lightening in the later afternoon beyond them. I get it.
No comments:
Post a Comment