Spring. 1993.
Tuesday. After work.
Johnny Rotten once said “Anger is an energy”.
By day, I find that I am gradually becoming less of an angry, UNIX asshole.
But now, it is Spring.
I am “trying out” for the company men’s softball team. And so, I go to the well of energy, to draw from it, the water has kept me ahead of line drives and force‐outs that I would otherwise fall prey to.
It’s time to play ball.
. . . . .
Good Olʹ Jeff Black, every oneʹs software hero and all‐around nice guy with the pencil‐thin arms starts to mosey out to left field.
Thatʹs right. You heard me.
Jeff Black moseys on down. Shoeless Jeff Black.
Jeff didnʹt drag himself out there like heʹs just on the team to get away from the ball-and‐chain after work. He wasnʹt beer stupid nor weed goofy. Jeff Black pulled into the softball field parking lot in an “Eddie Bauer” Ford Explorer listeninʹ to Achy‐Breaky Heart.
On purpose. Heʹs got the CD.
Jeffʹs got his glove on right after he gets out his earth tone, achy‐breaky SUV. Heʹs a“lefty” wearing his crusty Wilson A2000 on his right paw. Jeff walks with his right shoulder a foot lower than his left as if the garage sale glove heʹs got on his right hand weighs twenty‐three pounds on account of its petrified.
Without askin’, without tellin’ anyone, Shoeless Jeff Black moseys on out to left field.
And when he does, he speaks to no one. No ‘hey fellas’ or ‘nice day, where do you want me?’ No Ralph Lauren sign of the dapper, good‐natured, ʺgolʹ darnʺ emacs‐genius‐Masters‐in‐Business SCU grad.
And he ambles some more. Then he moseys some.
He never turns around to trot backwards as most serious outfielders do. He doesnʹt even do a Barry Bonds and just walk backwards a couple steps with his back to the left field bleachers in sunflower seed disgust.
No.
Shoeless Jeff Black goes way the hell out there in left field, at least 480 feet out. No exaggeration.
I run out to second base only to get a front row seat of our understaffed left fielder position. I want to see how many bounces Shoeless Jeff needs to reach the bag.
. . . .
Clifford Santa Domingo - our pitcher, batting “cleanup” in games - announces the advent of the new softball season as he tossed the ball to heaven in honor of the baseball gods, then smacked the shit out of it as it fell back to earth, as if to curse the very same gods.
Armed with only an aluminum bat, Cliff hits Shoeless Jeff a Bullet.
Jeff seems to just mosey on out to git or fetch the ball.
At the time I thought, to myself, Jeff is really taking this “bullet” rather politely; being that the ball Cliff just hit, is easily a home run in any park ‐ fence or no fence.
Still, Jeff, in his down‐home, country earnest, pursues the ball as it sails into the dark part of the park; where the lights don’t reach.
Now, I kinda feel sorry for poor ol’ Shoeless Jeff.
I didn’t wanna steal his starting lineup position due to a broken leg sustained while chasing a meaningless softball bullet into the sagebrush, or getting mugged in the darkest part of the park.
But it occurs to me, as I see Shoeless Jeff almost disappear beyond the horizon. He isn’t running after a ball after it’s reached the Earth. He’s on a . . a . . a dead run. A sprint. And - to this day I still can’t believe it - he looks over one shoulder. And doesn’t stop. Or trip.
And, then, while still running, he changes his running path to meet the tortured sphere’s trajectory.
It’s as if he’s still trying to catch the ball.
Then, I hear the revered snap of the ball as it meets it’s Maker, the cry of a baseball glove that says: I’m caught.
MARK
I have only the time it takes for the sound of Shoeless Jeff’s successful grab to travel to my ears, to process Lesson #1 - Shoeless Jeff only *looks* like he moseys!
Absolutely no wasted or exaggerated movement! Shoeless Jeff is faster than he looks!
And, like a Quentin Tarantino movie, bits and pieces of the recent past start coming to me almost as fast as the the miniscule dot that is slowly turning into a regulation size softball; right before - or, rather in between - my very eyes.
The purposeful way Shoeless Jeff walked to left field. The way no one acknowledged his journey to left field. It’s not that no one noticed or cared.
Shoeless Jeff and left field were One.
And then, it occurred to me: if Shoeless Jeff throws as quick, for as long, and as tenacious as he runs, that means he might
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