The Fastball

There's something glorious about spring on Cape Cod. The snow is long gone, and the sun is working its yearly miracle on the air; a little moist, a little cool, and a definite promise of coming warmth. The local vegetation is breaking through the earth and showing definite signs of coloration. The sky was crystal clear blue this particular day. It was a great morning for yard sales and that's how this adventure came to be.

Now I'm a little embarrassed to admit to enjoying yard sales. There is something about relishing a yard sale that somehow seems to detract from a man's manliness. Nevertheless, I don't mind following my wife around to them. She is the real addict; the yard sale-aholic. She would go to a yard sale at the drop of a hat, but I, too, sense a rush in anticipation of finding a wonderful bargain in someone's basement or garage.

While I do enjoy these "junk" searches, there are some things that I will not tolerate. One of those intolerances was tested this day. The particular "estate sale" that we were attending must have been very well advertised because there was a long line of bargain hunters, waiting to be admitted to the home. People were only being admitted when someone else exited. No bargain is worth that to me.

So I left my wife to fend for herself and decided to take a little stroll around the neighborhood. I found a road that appeared, at first to twist through completely wooded land. I started hiking down the road. That's when I spotted it. There in the woods, in what seemed a most unlikely place, there was a beautifully maintained baseball diamond. It seemed like a vision. Was it real? Was it Brigadoon?

I felt like a piece of iron under the influence of a lodestone. I could not resist. Walking over to the field, it became clear that this was no little league field. There was a full baseball diamond, a chain link fence all around, the requisite backstop, a building which looked like a refreshment stand and an impeccably kept infield.

As I got closer, I could feel juices within me recalling my own baseball days. During my youth, I was a pitcher on my high school team. And, oh!, how I could make the ball dance. I could make the ball curve any way I wanted, but it was well known that I had control "issues" which made all that ball curving of limited utility.

In fact, I believe I am owed a Guinness World pitching record. There was one game that I started with a first pitch fast ball which, to my horror, slipped through my fingers and sailed completely over the backstop. The batter, the catcher, and the umpire all stared with open mouthed wonder as the ball rose from my hand and ended up clear out of the park. That was embarrassing enough, but it was even more humiliating when Coach, without waiting for the second pitch yelled at the top of his lungs, "Time Out". After only one pitch, I found myself exiled to right field. So I claim to be baseball's only starting pitcher who was yanked after only one pitch. It is unlikely, but perhaps someone else shares that record with me, but surely no one has been able to top it.

Even remembering the one pitch game, I couldn't help but feel my hormones flowing and drawing me to the diamond. I found an opening in the gate and I walked out onto the field. I was completely alone as I stepped onto the mound. I turned and faced home plate and memories came faster than I could cope with. There was something electric in the air and I longed to have a ball in my hands so that I could fire just one more pitch. It had been 45 years since I was last on a real pitching mound. Oh, somebody; give me a baseball! But, alas, there was no one around to do so. I was alone with my memories.

I continued my inspection of the beautiful field. Walking out toward second base I scanned the outfield and continued enjoying memories of Little League and school baseball teams. All of a sudden, my eyes caught sight of something lying in the grass in center field. It was small and round and, could it be; a discarded baseball? I walked toward it with anticipation. Sure enough, someone had left an old worn out baseball in center field. The ball had no cover, and strings hung off it haphazardly. It appeared to have weathered badly during the winter season. Despite its condition, I felt a great excitement as I picked it up and hefted it in my hand a few times. There was no hesitation in my mind. I knew exactly what I was going to do with this ball.

I tossed it up and down several more times as I walked back toward the mound. I was going over in my mind what pitch to throw. How about my pineapple, a pitch which curved up. How about my Wakefieldish knuckleball. Finally I decided on a straight fastball. This pitch was going to make up for that one pitch game. This pitch was going straight down the pipe.

I looked around to see if I was still all alone on the field. I was. I stepped on the mound. I put my right foot on the rubber and shook my right arm to loosen up the flaccid and ageing muscles. I stared at home plate. Sixty feet between me and a perfect pitch. Sixty feet to erase bad memories of the "Guinness" game. I shook off my imaginary catcher's call for a curve ball. I nodded assent when he gave me the index finger signalling fast ball. Then I wound up, a little slower than I used to. I kicked my left foot into the air, a little lower than I used to and I fired my best fastball. In a split second, I followed through and came around to be in a proper fielding position. I stared at my pitch in wonderment. No way was this baby going over the backstop. It was headed right down the pipe for the outside low part of the plate. My adrenalin was pulsing through my veins as I anticipated the "STRIKE" call from the imaginary umpire. I followed that ball like a hawk until, alas, it came down and landed about twenty feet shy of home plate.

On my way back to the yard sale I thought about a lot of things. I thought long and hard about that 40 foot fastball. I thought about how lucky we are to be able to have memories of past times, good and not so good. But I also realized how foolish it is to try to change something that you cannot. Our memories form a trail of footprints in time, behind us. The trail is circuitous, sometimes crossing itself. When we look back we can see many of them plainly. Others are hidden in the shadows. These footprints, hidden or not, do not wash away. They do show us the path our lives have taken and we need them to help decide where to place our feet next.

As I caught up with my wife at the yard sale, I was not at all sure how I was going to follow my own advice. Sometimes it's a lot easier to think up advice than it is to heed it. But one thing I was sure of was that I would never forget that Fastball.

Peter Barbella Jr.