Baseball Part I
By: Jade Sanchez-Ventura
After Illinois and the divorce, my mother and I moved in with my grandmother who was living then in a one room apartment in the East Village, and from there to our own apartment on a busy avenue in Brooklyn where the windows in the back looked out over downtown Brooklyn and the Statue of Liberty was hazy in the smog above the East River. The wooden floors slanted. My blue rubber ball rolled back to me. The windows in the front looked down on the busy avenue.
My father would visit about once a year. I didn’t know exactly when he would appear, but I knew his season. Late spring, early summer. He would stay a few weeks, we would play baseball.
He slept at the Y a few blocks away, although my mother tells me that for the first few years she’d let him stay over until she got more sober and learned boundaries and then didn’t. He buzzed for me in the morning. He came up, perhaps they sat over a coffee, and then he and I left for the park two long avenue blocks away. We carried a glove each, a bat, and a baseball. People smiled at us as we walked.
We chose our field with care, trying to find an empty one with a good angle to the sun. Once settled, our things piled by the chain link fence, we began warming up. We stood close, throwing the ball lightly between us and this is when we talked, chatting while we tossed the ball back and forth. He’d caution me not to throw too hard yet. I could strain my arm. Just nice and soft to loosen our shoulders. We moved further apart, gradually talking less and throwing the ball harder, until it was landing with a smack in the leather of our gloves and I was silent with concentration.
Sometimes I’d catch one of these fast throws not in the pocket of my glove, but against my palm which was protected by only a thin layer of leather. My hand would sting from the impact. When I threw the ball hard enough to smack into his palm, my father would hiss through his teeth, laugh, saying,
“Good girl, Jade.”
I was so good at baseball.
The public fields didn’t include bases. We marked our own in the sand, using a hat, a stick, a Frisbee. He’d begin at home plate and then we’d measure the others, eyeing especially the line between second and home to make sure we got it straight. When they were in place, my fielding practice began. I took my position at short stop. My father stood at home plate, and from there began hitting and throwing balls out to me.
I was not to be afraid of the ball under any circumstance. I was not to let it past me, no matter what, even if it meant using my own body to stop it. I learned to throw myself after the ball, diving for impossible grounders, my favorites the ones that raced to my right, making me run and reach across my body with my glove, catch it with one diagonal lunge, and fast fast, grab it, brace, step and throw out the runner.
We had no first baseman. I threw the ball fast into the fence behind home plate, pretending the runner was sprinting towards home. My father would let me know if I’d thrown fast enough to earn the out.
Outfield was next and he cautioned me. Yes, the infield was more exciting but it was essential I learn the nuanced skill of the outfielder; how to read a batter, how to watch the ball, gauge its trajectory, how to stare into the sun unblinking, watching the tiny black dot as it fell toward me. He taught me to tense my muscles before each pitch, just in case this was the one that came sailing into the air while the crowd watched in suspense. Only I could stop that hit from turning into a run, even two or three, or god forbid, four, depending how many men were on base.
I learned to run and not watch the ball, to anticipate the moment when I could slow enough to look over my shoulder, see the ball, adjust my body, run harder, and sometimes, leap into the air my whole body stretched towards the apex of my glove and wait the breath before the gamble either works, the ball landing in the very outer reaches of the leather—caught—or doesn’t, the ball landing just beyond me on the grass, so I land, run to it, pick it up, fast fast, and throw the ball to the cut off man. Only then pause, catch my breath, and watch the action finish in the infield.
My dad would let me know if I’d thrown fast enough or far enough to get the runner out.
I was so good at baseball.
My father would visit about once a year. I didn’t know exactly when he would appear, but I knew his season. Late spring, early summer. He would stay a few weeks, we would play baseball.
He slept at the Y a few blocks away, although my mother tells me that for the first few years she’d let him stay over until she got more sober and learned boundaries and then didn’t. He buzzed for me in the morning. He came up, perhaps they sat over a coffee, and then he and I left for the park two long avenue blocks away. We carried a glove each, a bat, and a baseball. People smiled at us as we walked.
We chose our field with care, trying to find an empty one with a good angle to the sun. Once settled, our things piled by the chain link fence, we began warming up. We stood close, throwing the ball lightly between us and this is when we talked, chatting while we tossed the ball back and forth. He’d caution me not to throw too hard yet. I could strain my arm. Just nice and soft to loosen our shoulders. We moved further apart, gradually talking less and throwing the ball harder, until it was landing with a smack in the leather of our gloves and I was silent with concentration.
Sometimes I’d catch one of these fast throws not in the pocket of my glove, but against my palm which was protected by only a thin layer of leather. My hand would sting from the impact. When I threw the ball hard enough to smack into his palm, my father would hiss through his teeth, laugh, saying,
“Good girl, Jade.”
I was so good at baseball.
The public fields didn’t include bases. We marked our own in the sand, using a hat, a stick, a Frisbee. He’d begin at home plate and then we’d measure the others, eyeing especially the line between second and home to make sure we got it straight. When they were in place, my fielding practice began. I took my position at short stop. My father stood at home plate, and from there began hitting and throwing balls out to me.
I was not to be afraid of the ball under any circumstance. I was not to let it past me, no matter what, even if it meant using my own body to stop it. I learned to throw myself after the ball, diving for impossible grounders, my favorites the ones that raced to my right, making me run and reach across my body with my glove, catch it with one diagonal lunge, and fast fast, grab it, brace, step and throw out the runner.
We had no first baseman. I threw the ball fast into the fence behind home plate, pretending the runner was sprinting towards home. My father would let me know if I’d thrown fast enough to earn the out.
Outfield was next and he cautioned me. Yes, the infield was more exciting but it was essential I learn the nuanced skill of the outfielder; how to read a batter, how to watch the ball, gauge its trajectory, how to stare into the sun unblinking, watching the tiny black dot as it fell toward me. He taught me to tense my muscles before each pitch, just in case this was the one that came sailing into the air while the crowd watched in suspense. Only I could stop that hit from turning into a run, even two or three, or god forbid, four, depending how many men were on base.
I learned to run and not watch the ball, to anticipate the moment when I could slow enough to look over my shoulder, see the ball, adjust my body, run harder, and sometimes, leap into the air my whole body stretched towards the apex of my glove and wait the breath before the gamble either works, the ball landing in the very outer reaches of the leather—caught—or doesn’t, the ball landing just beyond me on the grass, so I land, run to it, pick it up, fast fast, and throw the ball to the cut off man. Only then pause, catch my breath, and watch the action finish in the infield.
My dad would let me know if I’d thrown fast enough or far enough to get the runner out.
I was so good at baseball.