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Glory
by: Stephen Parrish I played right field in Little League. For a single inning. The rest of the game—and season—I sat in the dugout. Which was okay, since the only reason I signed up for Little League was to get the t-shirt. “Bob’s Ranch House,” it said, referring to a restaurant in Henderson, Kentucky. It displayed a black logo on the front that was neither ranch nor house, more like the outline of a t-shirt. A t-shirt with a picture of a t-shirt. Advertising Bob’s Ranch House. Because Bob had donated it. The science of economics was simpler back then. The reason I spent most of the season in the dugout was because I wasn’t any good. Everyone, even the batboy, could hit better than me. It wasn’t until the end of the season that I realized I was supposed to swing at the ball. I thought the reason we stood there with a bat raised in the air was so that our moms could take pictures of us. My coach treated me fairly, I must admit: shaking off a turd stuck to your shoe is a fair way to treat the turd, to say nothing of the shoe. Nevertheless, he had to play me once. You couldn’t make a kid sit in the dugout the whole season, especially when his parents parked on the other side of the home-run fence to watch him play. They could have sat in the stands, but the area beyond the home-run fence was safer, since no ball ever went that far. Bob’s Ranch House was the worst team in the division. And I was its worst player. There was a certain glory to bask in, I suppose, but all I knew at the time was that the coach was saving me. That’s what he said after every game: “You’ll get your chance, Stevie. I’m saving you.” From humiliation, no doubt. Come the last game of the season, our record was 0-18. The coach put me in right field. It was the bottom half of the ninth inning; he couldn’t wait any longer. “Stevie! Right field! On the double!” On my way out I asked one of the other players, “Which one is right field?” I did the same thing out there I’d been doing all season in the dugout: picked weeds and dangled them from my mouth. My mom climbed out of the car to snap some pictures, and I couldn’t fathom why; I wasn’t even holding a bat. Something funny was going on, though. The scoreboard said 4-3, Home vs. Away. We were the home team. I didn’t know why we were winning; the scoreboard said so, and that was good enough for me. I kept myself busy selecting weeds to dangle from my mouth. If our pitcher ever threw a strike, it was a freak accident. At any rate, I never saw him do it. So the first three batters for the “away” team, Cedric’s Auto Parts, filled the bases with walks. The next two batters inexplicably swung at what our pitcher threw, and struck out. Spectators in the stands rose to their feet. My dad climbed out of the car and stood next to my mom. Bob’s Ranch House was within one “out” of winning a game, for the first time in its franchise. But the bases were loaded, and the best hitter for Cedric’s Auto Parts stepped up to the plate. He delivered. A long fly ball. To right field. I saw it coming. I hoped it wouldn’t hit me. But then I heard my mom and dad behind me, yelling, “Catch it! Catch it!” What the hell. I picked up my glove, which was resting in the grass at my feet, and looked up again. It was still coming. Had it been hit one foot to the left or right, it would have missed me altogether, resulting in an in-the-park grand slam. I opened my glove, and the ball plopped into it. The game was over. I was carried off the field a hero. Old-timers in Henderson, Kentucky still reminisce about the day. “That kid from Bob’s Ranch House, the right fielder, what was his name?” “Dunno. Had a mouth full of weeds, all I remember.” “The next season Bob changed the name of his restaurant.” “Yup. Didn’t want to jeopardize his 1-18 record.” They say half of success is showing up. Standing in the right place helps too. |
Stephen Parrish is the author of The Tavernier Stones, a #1 Amazon mystery, and The Feasts of Lesser Men. His essays have appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Rose and Thorn Journal, and elsewhere. He edits The Lascaux Review.
