NO SHOW

Nobody shows up anybody in baseball.

The batter doesn’t talk back to the ump. The pitcher and the catcher don’t either.

The pitcher doesn’t glare at the batter. He just goes about his business, throwing strikes, getting him out. The batter doesn’t sneer at the pitcher, especially after he gets a hit.

The runner doesn’t pump his fist at the fielder when he completes a successful steal. He doesn’t nyah nyah the catcher. Instead, he humbly looks down. He doesn’t showboat. He shows respect.

Memories are long in this game.

THE SMELL TELL

I can tell by the smell. In there with the popcorn and beer backdrop, the grass and the grit, there’s something different, maybe the pitcher’s sweat. I don’t know, but I know when the curve is coming.

Eyeballs

You’d swear sometimes that baseballs can see. The one that goes so deep into the hole that the shortstop can only pick it and hold it. The blooper between two charging fielders. I’m not talking about twisty hits, the infield spins I can control. I mean the ball that skids low for no reason and goes under an infield glove or the halfway hop that handcuffs a third baseman. The balls seem to know where they’re going.

ANSWER THE BALL

A pitch is a question you answer with your hands. What am I going to do with you? Sometimes you don’t say anything. You don’t swing. Sometimes you shout. That’s a double or a blast. Sometimes you say, “Whassup?” That’s a bunt.