Little League Jesus

I was scared of him.

He threw very hard, was three years older than me, and had fuzz on his upper lip.

He was one of the Chosen -- straight and tall and handsome, in an Irish way.

Probably had a nice singing voice.

In my first At Bat, I struck out, happy to get back to the safety of the dugout.

In my second At Bat, he hit me on the wrist, and the umpire called it a foul ball.

I got back in the batter’s box, and struck out with the bat on my shoulder, my left hand numb for 2 or 3 innings.

I came up for my third, and final At Bat, and I’d never bought into that “David and Goliath” business, and I couldn’t wait to get home, and watch a little TV.

Jimmy O’Neal stared at me.

He looked tired, slightly irritated, and bored with the game that was clearly too easy for him.

He was gonna put me out like an unwanted cigarette, then go home and watch a little TV.

 My plan was to stand in the outer reaches of the batter’s box, and hope for a walk.

Instead, I closed my eyes, and swung at the first pitch, body in rebellion of brain.

I hit the ball late, into right field, and stood at home plate, following the path of the ball, with eyes like silver dollars, as everyone yelled, “Run, run!”

It was too many things to do all at once.

Just making contact with the ball was plenty, now I had to run as well?

The ball bounced once, and hit the fence.

Quite a distance, maybe 15 feet from going out.

It was really something to see.

Everyone was yelling, “Run, run!”

I looked at Jimmy O’Neal and he was smiling, yelling, “Run, run!”

He was excited for me, this little boy, not even close to 5 feet tall, showing some guts, going the opposite way (the only way to go against Jimmy O’Neal), after getting hit in the previous At Bat, something he knew, something shared between us.

He didn’t need this moment.

His victories were many, past present, future, and he just didn’t need this one.

This one was mine and it was much more interesting than another Jimmy O’Neal strikeout.

I finally ran and turned a triple into a sliding double.

Jimmy struck out the next three batters and the game was over.

My mother was waiting by the bleachers, with hug, kiss, cherry Sno-Cone.

She knew what I had done.

We walked across the street to our house.

And I thought about the smiling face of Jimmy O’Neal.

Smiling like some kind of Little League Jesus.

He showed me something on that warm Jersey night.

And maybe I showed myself something, as the summer waned, and I steeled myself for the 5th grade, an inch closer to manhood, as my cherry Sno-Cone dripped all over my baggy white baseball pants.###

 

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