It's May, a perfect 79 degrees Fahrenheit at the old ball park of Anytown USA, with not a cloud in the sky. Today is the day that the little league fans have been waiting for with anticipation all year: The good ol' crosstown rivalry between the Yankees (in blue) and the Reds (well, lets not be redundant). The Yankees, by far the crowd favorite (parents of the Reds live across town and prefer making meth, bail, and more children than necessary to finding a ride to the affluent side of town to watch their kids lose and get gawked at by the other parents) take the field. As the five foot scrappers in blue make their way out to their positions, the crowd lets out many excited cheers.
This town has got something to be proud of in these kids, these heroes of America. The first baseman is reliable, with exceptional hand eye coordination and a foot that won't leave the bag on a stretch. The second baseman is quite lovable, a little goofy, but he knows how to be a team player. Shortstop is the position of the most handsome 9 year old to ever play the game. He's gonna break a lot of hearts someday (not to mention a lot of hy.... I'll keep it PG). Third base is played by the bad boy, who won't hesitate to bust a kid in the mouth with his glove if necessary. The pitcher does have a problem with hookers, but the crowd loves him just the same. Cathcer is played by an immigrant boy, whom the team cherishes as a wonderful example of the American can-do spirit. In right field is ol' gangly boy. Already standing at 5'4", nothing gets past him. In center field the contemplative one takes a firm stand of reliance and solitude. Did I mention he's also never dropped a ball? The odds of winning the pennant this year are likely, as this team has everything going for it, and all of them are exceptional at bat. That is, except for the F*&king left fielder.
Way out in left field, where no one ever looks, especialy if a ball is hit that way, stands the one weakness in the team. Stunted at 4'5", he's a sickly looking boy with brown teeth, bottlecap glasses, limp arms, and an affinity for facing the back gate of the field and picking away at his wedgie. Poorly coordinated and with a terrible work ethic, this boy was placed out in left for a reason: These nine year-olds seldom hit the ball that far. His parents, at the suggestion of their friends who thought he needed to make friends, signed him up for this. To make an excuse for the coach who chose him, no one knew this kid would be so bad. I mean he's real bad. Can't even field a grounder without falling over bad. God, he sucks.
The team tries their best to make up for their weakness by shoving him in the back corner and moving the center fielder over to compensate. But still, every now and then someone is going to hit the ball right at him. You can literally count how many times the ball was hit his way by the number of team errors posted after each game. To make things worse, he has no social skills. During the times the team sits in the dugout, he wanders off to talk to the opponents in the middle of the game. The coach is even beginning to get suspicious about his wandering off to talk with the other team. Did the other coaches plant a spy in his team. I'll bet they did. Oh no! He's talking to the left fielder of the Reds right now. This kid is a double for sure, nothing else explains how bad he is. The worst thing is, there's no way to get rid of him. This isn't like Nam, where you can send him into a tunnel where Charlie is waiting, telling him its already been cleared for explosives.
Way out there in left field, he stands tired and depressed. The pitcher's mom picked him up for the game, and he squints to see if either of his parents made it and are sitting in the stands. Probably not. The sun is high and getting into his glasses. It burns. He's sweating and uncomfortable, wishing he was home with his book, or visiting his grandparents. He knows good and well what his other teammates think of him. Its not like they try to hide it. When he tries to make friends with the only people who might not judge him, the other team, the coach yells at him and makes him run laps after the game. "Why am I out here?" he asks the sky. "Why can't I be doing something that makes me happy? Why don't I have any friends?"
As he ponders these complexities of life and hoping the victory hot dog at the end of the game doesn't make him sick again, he hears a loud *CRACK* behind him. He turns around just in time to see the ball soar sky high his way. The crowd lets out a cry of anguish. He tries to track the ball, but the sun catches his glasses and he's blinded. He trips on something and lands on his knees, no longer able to follow the ball. He closes his eyes and wishes "please just this once", as he reaches his open glove as far as he can above his head. He hears a *THWAP*. His hand closes around something firm. He looks. It's the ball. A girlish scream of ecstasy is emitted by the coach. The crowd follows.
Its the top of the 5th (as I recall they don't play the full 9 until later in life), and his catch has just saved the team from the Reds hitting a grand slam. They've won the game, no need to bat again. USA! USA! USA! How in the hell did he catch that ball?
The left fielder stands alone in the field, bewildered at the turn of events. He's now a hero. The team wants to take him up on their shoulders and later feed him a bunch of gross ass hot dogs. But he's just standing there staring at the ball in his glove, way out in left field. He thinks about how they've all treated him, and how they'll likely treat him again after a couple more practices reassure it was just a fluke. He knows that he's about to receive one hour of the emotion and inclusion he has yearned for his whole life. But after that it will be gone forever. Is it worth it to be hero for a day, only to be placed at the bottom again? Won't it just hurt more to have appreciation and lose it again, than to have never had it at all? There's a lot of deep questions this kid is asking himself. He looks back at the fence. There's a small gate at the back, and he could easily leave the field and walk home to his sweet isolation. He begins to take his left hand to his glove to grab the ball and throw it back, but he stops himself. "Should I even throw it back?", he wonders. He looks at the ball.
Should he even throw it back?
Shoot Gandhi - Hitler, when approached by Lord Halifax in 1937, who wished to seek his advice on the matter of India's protest to British Rule.
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