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| Ted Williams |
Fiction by F.T. Rea
June 3, 1959: A lean boy with
sandy hair and blue-gray eyes, 11-year-old Roscoe Swift lived in a
nine-room stucco house with his mother's parents. The 40-year-old house
was in Dogtown, south of Richmond proper.
Roscoe's grandfather was an architect. His grandmother taught children
to play the piano. Their yard had two apple trees, a cherry tree, a plum
tree and three grape vines in it.
His
mother lived in her studio apartment over a garage that accommodated
two cars and his grandfather's seldom used workshop. It was about
30 yards from the house. She was a sometime freelance commercial artist
who preferred to work at night and sleep in the day. No one referred to
her drinking ways as "alcoholism." When the weather didn't suit her she
wouldn't venture outside what she called her "carriage house."
Everybody else called it a "garage." There
were spells when Roscoe wouldn’t see his mother for the better part of a week.
When Roscoe was two years old his mother and father had split up. His
father went back in the Army and subsequently died in a helicopter
crash somewhere in Korea. Since his mother refused to talk about his
father -- she had destroyed all photographs of him right after their
separation -- the boy's blurry picture of the dead man had been pulled
out of the air.
When his mother wasn't within earshot his grandmother would sometimes
say, "Your dad had a wonderful smile." His grandfather had told him his
father had been a "pretty damn good outfielder" when he was Army, which
had frequently gotten him preferential treatment from the brass.
Two or three times Roscoe had heard his grandfather say with a chuckle,
"Don't know much about what else your father did during the war, but he
played on the same baseball field with some pros."
When he imagined his father, rather than in a military uniform, Roscoe
usually saw him in a Depression Era baseball uniform, like what he'd
seen Lou Gehrig and Dizzy Dean wearing in newsreels.
For as long as he could remember Roscoe had been in training to be a
hero. It wasn’t something he talked about much, but it was usually
close to the heart of his striving. He was a strong reader and had
already inhaled
many a biography and adventure story about heroic figures. To steel his
nerves he had tested himself with daredevil stunts. He
wasn't one to back down from a fistfight. At camp the summer before he
had won a National Rifle Association Sharpshooter patch, which he kept
with other treasures in a cigar box, hidden where nobody would find it.
On this day
the most significant test of Roscoe's mettle had arrived: he was
playing the biggest baseball game of his career. Remembering the lucky
Ted Williams baseball card he’d slipped into his
back pocket before he’d left for school, Roscoe looked at the blue sky and smiled ever so
slightly.
Mostly, school was easy for Roscoe. He took pride in being able to
turn in a paper first and get every question right. His difficulties
in school stemmed from his class clown inclinations and his quick
temper. Good grades in conduct weren't a given.
He liked reading about history and he enjoyed drawing, especially
cartoons. But Roscoe hated being indoors in good weather. Baseball was
mattered most to him. During baseball season, using the box scores in
the morning newspaper, he routinely calculated the up-to-date batting
averages of his favorite Major League players before he went to
school.
Two of the fifth-grade classes had finished the season tied, forcing a
playoff game to decide the championship. Following lunch, all four
fifth-grade classes at Gittes Creek Elementary had been given the
afternoon to watch the two teams settle the issue. Which was a treat,
because all the previous games had been played during recess.
Students with no taste for baseball had the option of watching a black
and white 16 mm documentary film about Jamestown's 350th anniversary.
Thus, there was a pretty good crowd for the title game.
With one out, Roscoe's side was two
runs down. As he took his practice swings, he reminded again himself
of the situation -- bottom of the
last inning, men on first and third. "No grounder," he said to
himself, as he knocked red dust off his canvas sneakers with the bat
... as if they were baseball spikes.
A group of some 20 men, fathers, uncles and a couple of former minor
league ballplayers from the surrounding neighborhood added a measure
of authenticity to the crowd. Girls from the two classes in the
championship game were acting as cheerleaders. No one could remember
that ever happening before, but it suited Roscoe just fine.
In 1959 baseball was still unquestionably America's National Pastime.
In Dogtown even fifth-grade baseball in the last week of school was
important.
Swift stood in the batter's box on the first base side of home-plate.
Originally trained as a right-hander, he had decided that if Ted
Williams -- the best hitter in the game -- batted left-handed that was
good enough for him. Besides, to Roscoe, for some reason a good
southpaw swing looked better. He’d been practicing batting
left-handed for a couple of months in neighborhood pickup games.
Finally, the switch had to be tested in a situation with something more
on the line.
Standing crouched and barely touching first base, Roscoe’s best friend
on the team, Bake, cheered him on. "Pick out a good one. Hit
your pitch, Number 9."
Even though the boys weren't wearing uniforms with numbers on them,
during games most of the starters on Roscoe's team called one another by
the numbers they would be wearing. Since Bake's favorite player was
Willie Mays, he was called Number 24.
However, a couple of Roscoe's teammates were imploring him from the
bench to bat right-handed, like usual, since everything was at stake.
Butterflies the size of eagles disquieted Roscoe's stomach, but he had
made up his mind to take the chance.
Stepping out of the box, the Roscoe took three slow and deliberate
practice swings. He looked at the crowd standing along the third base
line. The cheerleaders for his side were chanting, "Ros-coe, Ros-coe,
he's our man. If he can't do it, nobody can!"
His grandfather, who had taken the afternoon off for the first time in
Roscoe's memory, stood in the shade of an ancient oak tree with the
other men. Peering under the flat brim of his straw hat Rocsoe's first
baseball coach stoically watched the action, as only he could.
The other team's cheerleaders and classmates booed and hooted at
Roscoe from the first base line. He dug in and did his best to put them
out of his mind. However, there was a particular girl with a
strawberry-blonde ponytail and lively blue-green eyes cheering for the
other team. Her name was Susie and he never failed to notice her.
The best thing to say to Susie never came to mind when she was near.
Sometimes she made him feel short of breath. So Roscoe watched her
from a distance ... frequently with a sense of longing that baffled
him. Although Susie was calling for his team to lose, that very
second, he was sure glad she was there.
Back in the box, Roscoe shifted most of his weight to his back foot
and turned his front foot thirty degrees toward first base. Relaxing
his hands, he jutted his chin out and squinted like he was aiming a 22
rifle.
The pitcher threw the first pitch outside and in the dirt. It got by
the catcher. But the ground rules didn't allow stealing bases, so the
guys on base stayed where they were. Sure the next pitch would be across
the plate, Roscoe leaned back and prepared to cut the ball in half.
With the infielders behind him chattering like magpies, the hurler went
into his stretch and fired the ball. Roscoe liked the pitch and took a
big roundhouse swing.
Whoosh!
He nearly lost his balance as the sudden explosion of laughter from his
opponents and their classmates pierced Roscoe's armor of
concentration. Nonetheless, he didn't look at anyone on either
baseline. He knew he'd shut his eyes as he'd swung the bat.
Roscoe felt his cheeks flush as he pulled his baseball cap's brim down
on his brow. Again, he relaxed his wrists and fingers.
"It only takes one to hit it!" Bellowed his grandfather through cupped hands.
Roscoe leaned away from the pitcher, to put more weight on his back
foot. He remembered to take a deep breath, which he let out slowly as
the pitcher confidently cut loose with another fastball. Swinging from
his heels, Roscoe rolled his wrists just exactly as his weight shifted
toward the pitch. The batter tagged the ball sweetly.
Cah-rack!
The ball left the infield with dispatch. After clearing the leaping
second baseman's glove by two feet it took a sharp nosedive and evenly
split the closing distance between the right and center fielders. The
pair frantically chased the top-spinning sphere down the grassy slope.
The utter perfection of the bat’s perfectly timed kiss on the
horsehide's sweetest spot resonated through his body. The sudden furor
Roscoe heard seemed like it was far away. He ran like a monster was
chasing him. As he made his turn toward third base the ball plopped into
the trickle of a creek that bordered the schoolyard. Rounding third,
he caught up with Bake.
"Slow down, man," Bake advised over his shoulder with a sarcastic chuckle. "Those goons haven't even found it yet."
Roscoe's euphoric classmates were jumping around wildly. His
grandfather beamed as he waved his hat back and forth over his head.
Teammates, suddenly champions, were pounding him on his back as he
crossed home plate.
Meanwhile, Roscoe's capacity to comprehend the intensity of the moment
was red-lining. He looked at Susie on the quiet side of the field. The
way her head tilted to the side, the position of her limbs, something
about her stance, or gesture, made him feel disoriented. It was as
though he was viewing the event from a number of different angles,
simultaneously. He felt both inside and outside the scenario.
Roscoe's mind raced as everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Straining to pull all the elements together, to grasp all he was
sensing, he heard an explosion.
Boom!
Then he felt a strange calm. All he surveyed seemed vivid and in its place.
As Roscoe crossed home plate, it occurred to him that he hadn’t loped
around the bases, a la Teddy Ballgame. Maybe he could have, but he'd
been far too excited to feign nonchalance. More importantly, Roscoe had
remembered to not tip his cap. If the batting king and ace fighter
pilot of the Korean War, Ted Williams, never tipped his cap to the
public on his home run trot -- which he never did -- that was good
enough for Roscoe, too.
Roscoe felt like he was soaring, somewhere up above all of his dark
doubts. He was in a place where heroes don't have have to tip their caps
to anyone. Meanwhile, Susie had vanished.
Later on, Roscoe realized no one else had heard the explosion. Although
that made no sense to him he promptly dropped the subject and stashed
that mystery in the same hidden space with an accumulating stack of
guilty haunts and some developing theories.
Still, the moment's hero believed the memory of just how it felt when he hit that baseball perfectly would never leave him.
*
Note: "The Dogtown Hero" is part of a series of stories called "Detached."
From Chris Kowalczyk, 
