Perfect! In the Show during most of twelve seasons, a catcher since CYO, seventeen professional seasons, yet Skip, Mr. Analytics with his ripped physique, chides me as I strap on my equipment. “Make the kid throw strikes.” I’d give his phenom targets inviting fastballs skipping off the plate? Call for pitchouts with nobody on?
I’m just recalled from Triple A, us two back of the last wild card in September, but really! I’ve made my reputation calling games and framing pitches, earned before Skip was a struggling rook. After we go 1-2-3 in our first frame, our southpaw’s initial offering, heat following a deceptive rocking motion and windmill windup, explodes down the middle. Strike one.
This place is a mausoleum. The hitter’s backdrop looks like a decaying shroud. A franchise hoping to relocate? Do paid admissions outnumber players, coaches – we have twelve if you can believe that – and other uniformed personnel? Probably not if you count broadcasters, reporters, ushers, concessionaires, security, and other employees. Slider nips the corner. Good call, Blue.
Because our front office changes personnel as if we’re hockey lines, I call teammates by number. Truthfully, I have trouble remembering names or pronouncing Latino ones. To avoid ruffled feelings, every teammate’s his number. Do I dread catching 8-1? No, though just up from the minors, he wants everything his way. A splitter elicits a futile swing. A modern lift-and-loader defying the traditional leadoff role, the batter grabs some pine. One out.
Our Triple A team might kick today’s opponent’s ass. Owner with an evil agenda? Fire sale of talented players, cash infusion from revenue sharing, rationale to relocate? Trifecta for owners, like the ones in Major League and The Natural who disrespected the game. Quick strike on a two seamer.
8-1 hardly speaks English, but his pitches speak eloquently. Strike two, cut fastball. Close third pitch, but the overmatched batter flails at a circle change. Two down.
Skip has me catching 8-1 after the quirky rook exasperated our other catchers despite flashing a talented upside. With his interpreter, I did agree to use simple signs. Before I put fingers down, just for show, I affix my mask, the indicator, when I’m in my squat. My next touch on my chest protector gives location. 8-1 insists on calling his own pitches. Apparently, he’s got an arsenal. If he touches his left leg, it’ll be off speed. Right leg, cheese. I’m not happy just giving location but figure if this goes well, I might hang on the roster next year as 8-1’s personal catcher no matter what I hit. My lifetime .224 doesn’t elicit much interest, though my agent’s always looking for new-age stats to prove value. Another changeup, taken for strike one.
Birds circle the vacant upper deck. I remember, a lifetime ago when they drew fans here, staggering under a popup in the glare and swirling wind before muffing it when a pigeon crapped me. 8-1, unleashing a baffling screwball, just shat on their third-place batter. Strike two.
Waste one hoping he’ll go fishing? Nah, 8-1 shakes the location, wants center cut. What the hell. Gas blows him away. Three down. My God, a perfect inning, all strikes. Rare. Just over a hundred ever. I’d say something, but the kid wouldn’t understand. He seems uncommunicative, heading mutely to the dugout corner with his interpreter/friend.
We don’t score in the second, despite a walk and hit, stranding me in the on-deck-circle.
Adjusting my tools of ignorance. 8-1’s warmed up to face the clean-up hitter.
Good morning, good afternoon, goodnight. You’re outta here. Three swings and misses on 100+ fastballs circumnavigating the strike zone. Jesus.
Blue whispers, “Who the hell is this kid?”
Probably on orders from the dugout, their first baseman takes two strikes, the first a slider, the second a big hook that splits the heart of the plate.
Strike three’s almost an afterthought. The befuddled batter looks as if he’s swinging a fly swatter, thrashing at a knuckle curve.
Who is this guy, indeed? Cy Young?
Their sixth-place hitter meekly fouls off a cutter into the stands behind first base. First contact. Sounds like a movie.
8-1 looks offended. Two belt high fastballs blow Contact Man away. 1-2-3 second. Eighteen straight strikes! Wow!
After my feeble grounder to second, I sit by myself. If it’s good enough for 8-1, it’s okay for 2-8. We submissively make the next outs.
The PA announcement from my at-bat, however, still rankles as I take the field. It reverberated, creeping up and down aisles of failing concrete in the cavernous, virtually empty, stadium, echoing like the Lou Gehrig farewell speech: “The batter, number 28, Crusty Crosby.”
It’s Chris Crosby, nimrod! Hypocrites. Baseball worries about social niceties. The Braves’ nickname — and next the missionary oppressor Padres? — will probably disappear along with the Indian nickname. We have a yoga coach, female. I can’t dip tobacco or spit on real or fake grass anymore. Teams stage gay pride and mental health awareness days. The unwritten code that spoke to baseball’s frontier roots for years gets dismissed as old school.
Now, I’m no science-denying, conspiracy theorist. And yet, this hired announcer mocks me, a veteran, with a clown’s nickname and Simpsons’ walk-up music. No respect!
Change! Fielders shift all over. Don’t analytic-types know moving the defense between pitches spoils the catcher and pitcher’s established rhythm? Players peek at cheat sheets before hitting, fielding, or pitching. Back in the day, they get drilled doing that. Focus, Champ, the nickname I prefer, the one I earned.
On the black. Strike two and three follow like aftershocks. One out.
“Crusty, you or your boy-toy on the rubber calling pitches?” Bench jockeying’s a cruel sport. When nobody’s in the stands, you hear every word. I jerk my mask off to stare into the home dugout. Guys scurry like rats. Breathe. They’re trying to break your rhythm, and you’ve given in. 8-1though seems unaffected.
No, not calling pitches normally, but still calling them. No need for the new-fangled Pitch.com-wristband-wrap gizmo. 8-1 doesn’t like voices in his head. Can’t blame him. A foul ball off a cutter followed by two swings and misses at the letters. Two outs.
A hook, a change, and something looking like a Bill Lee spaceball after a Johnny Cueto shimmy, records the third out. Nine batters; 27 strikes; one amazed catcher. A record?
Coach 1-6 pats me on the shoulder as I remove my shin guards before watching us fail to score during the fourth. “Cruise control,” he enthuses, referring to me and 8-1 rather than the opposing battery. Respected 1-6 reminds me of the “Red” Traphagen character, the Professor/Coach in Bang the Drum Slowly. I do love baseball movies, though 1-6, himself an enthusiast, informed me that in the novel The Natural, the Robert Redford character strikes out rather than blasting one off the exploding scoreboard. Maybe that’s why I don’t read books.
Between recent stints in the Show, I got christened by a bush league sportswriter with the “Crusty” nickname. It amused my Triple A team’s youngsters, especially directed at a veteran of the ultimate baseball experience they drooled to have, winning — or watching from the bullpen as my team won — a World Series.
American kids on that Triple A team had probably watched more Simpsons’ episodes with “Krusty the Clown” than actual MLB games. And they wonder why baseball’s dying among American youth.
Anyway, 1-6, then managing that team, tried convincing me the nickname endearingly described an outspoken veteran with a grizzled exterior who doesn’t suffer idiots well and fends off small talk. I could have worse baseball obits. Endearing, though? B.S. Clubhouse nicknames usually come with a needle and don’t go mainstream unless teammates have big mouths, reporter “friends,” or unprincipled Twitter accounts.
Strike one, two, three. The stadium’s so empty I hear a voice from the press box announcing ten Ks in a row ties the MLB record. 8-1’s catcher going to get some credit? Four seams, two seams, and a slurve; happy dreams, you’ve been served. Another K, two outs. The record! Seaver, Nola, Burnes in the rear-view! Left college when drafted, but I’d still get an A+ in baseball history.
A heckler roars behind me. Drunk? Nevertheless, a James Earl Jones resonance: “Crusty, you and that greenhorn shoot steroids together? You usually can’t call a bingo game, and he can’t be good, or a has-been wouldn’t be catching him.” The words pierce the silence like 8-1’s next pitch, which whistles through the zone for strike one.
During the next innings, I speculate the loudmouth Wikied me to gather ammunition about my ugly divorce, recent minor league failures, and the number of career double plays I hit into. While I lurch into my new hated leg-out, knee-on-the-ground, catching stance Skip and the coaches insist I utilize, he screams, “Crusty, you look like an old, fat, out-of-position hockey goalie.” I’d flip him off and pay the fine but don’t want to give him the attention.
8-1 deserves attention. Their third-place hitter just gets a piece of a yakker. Then, a backdoor slider and high cheese in the zone put him away. Three outs; 36 strikes in a row. That’s bowling three straight perfect games!
Double Deuce, our shortstop, slams a big fly in the top of the fifth: 1-0, good guys. Thank God. I remember hearing Harvey Haddix pitched twelve perfect innings but lost on a hit in the thirteenth. Getting ahead of myself, but 8-1’s dealing.
He mows down the heart of their order in the bottom half:
Sinker, called strike one.
Strike two. A high hard one fouled straight back. Contact seems odd.
The launch-angling, clean-up batter waves at a splitter, one out. 8-1, unflappable, is throwing everything but a fit.
Two quick fastballs taken for strikes. Orders from the dugout?
The fifth- place hitter then thrashes at a forkball. Two outs.
The next batter squibs one behind the dish. I rip off my mask to pounce, fearing English might redirect it fair. I’d usually wait, hoping it spins fair to throw the batter out. Not now. “Strike one,” Blue yells — not “foul ball” — as soon as I touch it, strikes on his mind too.
Strikes two and three, cutters, complete another perfect inning.
1-6 sidles beside me on the bench as I chug water. He’s the only one talking to me, besides my heckler, and nobody’s talking to 8-1. 1-6 confirms 45 straight strikes: “Bartolo Colon supposedly threw 38 straight pitches in the strike zone in a 2012 game, but it included strikes hit into play. Today’s already historic.”
Maybe I won’t be history but make history. The Perfect Catcher. Good handle if I need to catch on with another organization next year.
Hitting into a twin killing my last at bat nags at me. Hate the stigma of batting last. Frigging DH.
A manager will use me as a DH. when hell freezes over.
Course, that characterization might work for this game. Is what I’m witnessing – participating in! – possible? My ex, a classics major — no jokes about dumping her “classic” – told me about Plato’s forms – unqualified, absolute perfection. Am I Plato to 8-1’s Socrates today?
In 2012 I watched TV as Matt Cain threw a perfect game, fanning 14, to tie the iconic Sandy Koufax – is 8-1 HIS reincarnation? – for most Ks in a perfect game. Still, 13 outs came other than by strikeout.
Is today your ticket to lasting fame? Stay in the moment, Champ.
Six swinging Ks with two foul balls, one down the leftfield line well back into the stands and the other topped near the on-deck circle.
Interspersed, three called strikes. Three outs. Three innings to go.
We don’t dent the scoreboard in the seventh, though 3-4 bashes a mistake at the letters to the wall. A tinny “Take me Out to the Ball Game” seeps dirge-like out of the public address system. My grandstand critic stretches his legs and lungs, disparaging my lack of brains, speed, and agility.
This third-time-through-the-lineup stretch looms. Mound visit? No.
A take on a big, breaking Uncle Charlie – Blue feeling pressure on close pitches? – and two belated swings on fastballs. One out.
My heckler unleashes, “Crusty, you and Green Card sell your souls to the devil?” I think of Damn Yankees.
I yearn to fire back with a retort about the movie, less personal than the litany blowhard unleashed about my ex, my daughters, and my career. Being branded a movie musical-lover, however, isn’t what I need, hanging on to my job in baseball’s hyper-macho atmosphere. Might as well wear a pink jockstrap in the clubhouse. When putting down a finger to fake signs, I use my middle finger and think of Mighty Mouth.
Maybe after retiring, I’ll call out loudmouths in the stands who get personal.
I still remember, however, in the low minors the look of a ten-year-old’s mother. After getting thrown out straining for a double despite sore hammies to lose a tough game, I heard the kid bellow into our dugout, “Crosby, where’d you get your great speed?” My reply, “Same place you got your big mouth,” might have played okay if I hadn’t punctuated it with f-bombs.
I vowed never to confront hecklers again.
I also avoid confronting their dithering 2nd and 3rd place hitters, calling timeouts repeatedly. Pissed, Blue upbraids them. A foul ball looped into the stands gets me thinking. Would Sixer at third, or first sacker 1-2, or corner outfielders 2-1 or 3-5 let a foul ball in play drop? Me? September, up just one-zip, battling for a playoff spot? The next five pitches produce two punch outs, ending the seventh, perfectly.
No insurance runs in our eighth. Pressure ratchets up. Skip inserts defensive subs. If he tries subbing me out, I don’t leave. Double Deuce moves to second, with Snake Eyes taking over at short. 3-2 enters to play center.
Tight sphincters? Completing a perfect game’s more nerve-racking than a no-hitter where an error doesn’t ruin it.
Growing up in Reno, I watched televised Giants’ games. Announcer Duane Kuiper recounted playing second base when Len Barker shocked the world throwing a perfecto. Kuip claimed he dreaded having balls hit his way.
Just like a pitcher in the windup a whole game might waver adjusting to pitching from the stretch, inaction can get in the heads of fielders.
Today though could’ve been an Eddie Feigner “King and his Court” show, sans two fielders. Just 8-1 and me needed.
8-1’s still humming, dispatching their fourth and fifth hitters routinely, only one ball fouled straight back out of six strikes. I’m hoping it hits Mr. Megaphone’s pie hole, still flapping obnoxiously.
Their sixth-place hitter ATTEMPTS TO BUNT! Talk about shattering an unwritten code. “What the …,” I start chiding him, but before I can continue, he stammers, “They told me.” He jerks his head toward his dugout. What? To get within fifty games of first place?
I stare down their bush-league coaching staff while Blue saunters in front of the plate to whisk it off. Glaring at the batter, he sweeps back past me.
Does 8-1 get a generous call on the next pitch? Maybe, but he’s earned generosity. Strikes two and three, no-doubters, follow. Complete absolute perfection through eight.
Our ninth ends with me in the on-deck circle. Returning to the dugout, I see Skip approaching. I brush past him. I wave him off waylaying 8-1. Have I been guarding 8-1 in his dugout niche?
Last licks. Field of Dreams? Angels in the Outfield? Unbreakable, unworldly records set already. Impregnable records, like Joe D’s hitting streak. Regardless, we absolutely must complete this gem perfectly to capture pure baseball IMMORTALITY!
Pitch #73, sinker. Strike one. #74 and #75: 8-1’s still chucking 100+. One out. I can taste it!
“Gonna blow this, rook?” the heckler bawls. “Crusty gonna screw it up for you.” Peeved, I give pitch location deliberately. No cross-ups!
Unfazed, 8-1 pumps three straight cutters past their pinch-hitter. Two outs.
Tension inescapable. Still, 8-1 keeps his routine as another pinch-hitter gets announced. This guy tries bunting, I tackle him. He swings and misses at a slider.
Strike two is scary. Long drive to left, though a big-time hook takes it well foul.
Deep breath. With two strikes, do I call for high heat up in the zone? Normally, one run lead in the bottom of the ninth, I’d go to the mound to talk things over with my hurler. No way. Skip comes out of the dugout to approach the hill, I tackle him.
Crouching, I finger the bottom of my chest protector, but realize I forgot to touch my mask, never off while watching the loud foul and listening to more invectives from my buddy. Standing, I jerk my mask off and then pull it back on deliberately while sprawling into my catcher’s stance. I repeat location sequence, the base of my chest protector, but panic when 8-1 gathers himself to come home. Did he brush either leg? Did I miss it? The second pinch-hitter swings wildly at pitch #81, a wicked splitter, darting down through the strike zone like a soul consigned to hell. I frantically grope, fruitlessly trying to relax every muscle in my body to block it. @#$%@##**. It’s through my wickets. Passed ball; batter safe at first base! Perfect game, everything, ruined! @#$%@##**!
The shouldn’t-have-been-necessary pitch #82, naturally, gets blasted out of the park! Bye-bye, lead; Bye-bye, shutout; Bye-bye, no-hitter right after Bye-Bye, perfect game; Bye-bye game; Bye-bye absolute perfect game; Bye-bye classic baseball immortality; Bye-bye Champ Crosby. Hello the Mount Rushmore of baseball blunderers: Fred Merkle, Bill Buckner, Fred Snodgrass, Mickey Owen and now, besides Owen, another catcher forever linked to an egregious passed ball, Crusty Crosby. Crestfallen, Crust-fallen, today I consider myself the unluckiest man on the face of the earth.
***
Doctor Ken Hogarty lives in SF’s East Bay with his wife Sally, retired after a 46-year career as a high school teacher/principal. He also taught collegiate grad classes. Since, he has had many stories, essays, short plays, memoirs, and comedy pieces published in Underwood, Sport Literate, Sequoia Speaks, LYRA, Cobalt, Woman’s Way, Purpled Nails, the S.F. Chronicle, MacQueen’s, In Parentheses, Doubleback Review, Bridge Eight, the Under Review, Barzakh Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Mini Plays Review, Word’s Faire, NUNUM. Route 7, Wingless Dreamer, The Kelp Review, Good Old Days, Robot Butt, the Satirist, and Points in Case, among other publications. His novel, Recruiting Blue Chip Prospects, received good reviews. You can find more about it, as well as viewing other published works, at Kenhogarty.net.
