Earlier today on the BBC I heard a reading of a piece that David Foster Wallace wrote in 2006 about Roger Federer, and I thought Hey, that’s not a bad piece of writing but surely there are other, more recent, sports experiences we can write about.
So here’s one. It’s from a game my softball team played last week in Austin.
Ahem…
*****
There weren’t a lot of spectators at Krieg field #9 last Monday evening, but those who were there experienced something special. It’s something you’d appreciate even more if you’d ever played softball or baseball, to understand the impossibility of what you’d just witnessed.
The pitcher spun the ball upwards outlining the shape of the arc of St. Louis with the kind of rotation you usually associate with poolhall English. The batter swung, the angle of his body leaning toward left field, eagerly anticipating a rocket blast to the wall.
Instead, the meat of his bat caught the strings of the ball at an unflattering intersection, south of the equator. And it forced the ball to rise, rise, up toward the early-shimmering Gibbons moon, projecting a landing somewhere between the third baseman and the center left-fielder.
The man (if I can call him that) playing third base that night just happened to be me. I knew the ball would likely fall into the no-man’s land to my west for what would be labeled a bloop single. So I leaned into my heels and ran backwards, keeping my eye on the ball which seemed intent on surpassing me no matter how much I hastened my reverse gallop. Then, as the ball approached the ground, succumbing to gravity, reaching the height of what would be considered an appropriately-tall lead dance partner for someone of my size, I spun and lunged my left hand out where the ball landed in the cradle of my glove’s netting.
I squeezed, the ball held, spectators inhaled their breath.
It just so happened that the DJ of a local radio station I sometimes listen to was the other team’s third base coach that evening. As it became clear that his team would be called out on my improbable catch, he tipped his hat to me and mumbled, uncharacteristically softly, “Nice catch, man.”
I glanced back at him, gave him a wink, and said “I occasionally enjoy your show.”
It was like something out of The Matrix.
****
Okay, not really out of The Matrix, that’s just how Wallace’s essay ends.
You’re welcome.
Next up (if you’re lucky, sometime in the future), a tale of a bloody, legendary racquetball game that took place between two lifelong enemies (well, frenemies) in the spring of 2017.
