CNF: Hardball

by Jamey Temple

 

I watch behind home plate, behind a fence, the links diamond-shaped. Every time a little league player runs, dust kicks up, blows across the field like brown smoke. Parents cheer. Fuss at their kids to run faster, swing harder, play like the professionals they’re not. I, too, played ball, but softball. We played mostly at night, under the lights, the bugs swarming and smacking the bulbs.

I pause to film my son who steps up to bat, his coach showing him where to stand in the box. His hands choke the bat high. He is six, the size of a four-year-old, so the infield moves closer. I hold my breath and the camera steady as he swings the bat, driving up the middle. He runs. Makes it to first, then second. Safe.

Baseball is all about timing. Watching. Faking chances. Sometimes you make a hit and move forward. Sometimes no matter how bad you want something or how hard you try, you walk back to the bench, out. Voices carry here. Get that ball! Infield, be ready. Good try. Let’s go, Nathan! Remember what we talked about. Get ready! Foul ball!

In a month when the sun is closer and the air hotter, this field will be quiet. No who’s next or keep your eye on it, just need to make contact! The chalk dust lines will be long gone, the grass will begin to swallow the dirt, the scoreboard will stay dark.

How many of us have stepped into the batter’s box, stepped onto a base or plate, swatted away gnats in the outfield, had our legs stick to the metal bleachers, sucked the salt out of sunflower seeds, spitting out empty shells?

We all want to win at something.

I remember when the softball field was built so girls could play, too. We had a new option other than cheerleading, dance, and pageants. I don’t remember every game I played, but I remember my dad bragging that I didn’t throw like a girl, and the batters I struck out, their fans complaining about my strikeouts. I remember double plays, line drives to my head that I caught without thinking. I remember raw, red skin on my left thigh from sliding. I remember my dad telling me to stop saying sorry when I threw a ball hard and the other girl couldn’t catch it.

But softball sounds soft, doesn’t it?

For the first time, we could wear pants and kick up dirt like the boys. We could surprise our fathers and brothers when we swung with such force the ball tinged off the bat and landed in outfield, players chasing after it, toward the shadows.

 

Jamey Temple is a writer and professor who teaches English at University of the Cumberlands in Eastern Kentucky. Her poetry and prose have been included in several publications such as Fourth Genre, River Teeth, Rattle, and Appalachian Review. She has been named a finalist for Newfound Journal’s Prose Prize, Fourth Genre’s Multimedia Essay Prize, and Wavelengths Chapbook Contest. She is the recipient of an Artist Enrichment grant from Kentucky Foundation for Women and the Excellence in Teaching award from University of the Cumberlands. You can read more of her published work through her website (jameytemple.com).

 

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