Double Play || Barry Kritzberg

He glanced toward right field before stepping into the batter’s box, thinking more of Gloria than Babe Ruth.

There she was, sitting on her front porch, just across the street from that short, wrought iron right-field fence, wearing that loose white halter top and those tantalizingly tight white shorts.

His lustful thoughts were interrupted by the umpire. 

“Let’s go, batter, batter-up!”

Not that Gloria would notice. She was more interested in sunbathing than sports, and probably had no idea of what was going on in the game. Not that she ever noticed him, for she only had eyes for the blonde, Polish, strong boy who set new school records for chin-ups, push-ups, sit-ups, and other useless exercises.

The first pitch was outside. Ball one.

He heard, “Let’s go, Billy!” and his heart leapt. He looked instinctively out to right field, hoping it was Gloria. 

It wasn’t. 

She was putting nail polish on her toenails. 

It was her younger sister, Laura, the Pest, who was doing the cheering.  

Billy preferred baseball to 16-inch softball, the game devised to be played indoors in winter, but perfect for the tight quarters of Chicago playgrounds, and he played when it was the only game around. His school “field” looked like many other parks and playgrounds around the city: not a blade of grass, but gravel, gravel everywhere, poised to rip pants and hips for those who would dare slide, and embedded concrete for bases, raised just high enough to trip the novice.  And any tumble to the gravel drew blood.

The dimensions were also odd: 325 feet down the left field line, but only 75 feet down the right field line; so short, in fact, that any ball hit over the fence to the right of second base was an automatic out.  One solitary metal picket, out beyond second base, was painted white to help the umpire distinguish a ground-rule double from an automatic out.   

In the pre-game batting practice, the left-handed Billy hit lazy fly balls over the right field fence, hoping to get the attention, and an occasional scream, out of Gloria. 

One of his popups landed on Gloria’s steps and he got the desired scream. He was not particularly pleased to see the visiting shortstop—who might have been the twin of the blonde Polish strong boy Gloria so admired in the 8th grade—trot across the street to gallantly retrieve the ball and, oh yes, do a little flirting with Gloria.

Those lazy fly balls that Billy directed at Gloria’s porch had another purpose:  to make opponents believe that he could only pull the ball to the right side. 

When Billy came to bat for the first time in the game, the visiting coach called time out and moved every player a few steps toward right field. He, obviously, took note of Billy’s singular hitting during batting practice. Billy responded by slashing a double down the third baseline, inches fair. His second hit was just like the first, a line drive down the third baseline, just inches fair. 

When Billy came up for the third time, their coach tried another tactic. He had the third baseman stand practically on third base; every other player, except the first baseman, pitcher, and the catcher, was crowded on the shortstop side of second.    

Billy looked at the gaping hole between first and second base and considered hitting a hard grounder to the right side and then watching the fun as the ball went careening wildly off the fence. He wondered if Gloria would look up to see the panicky scramble that would ensue. She was now methodically brushing her lusciously long blonde hair.

“Strike one!” the umpire bellowed. 

His coach, standing with his feet wide apart at third base, yelled for time out, and then, even louder, “Billy!” 

The coach marched, with angry strides, down toward home plate. Billy, with his bat casually positioned on his left shoulder, walked up to meet him.

The coach put his arm around Billy, but it was not a friendly gesture.

“Damn it, Billy,” he said, in a voice much louder than a stage whisper, “how many times do I have to tell you not to step into the batter’s box until you are ready to hit?  I don’t know if you were just daydreamin’ or lookin’ at that blonde across the street, but your head sure ain’t in the game. I have half a mind to sit you on the bench. You want that?”

“No,” Billy said meekly, not daring to glance across the street if Gloria was paying attention to this public reprimand. 

“All right, then,” the coach said, clapping him rather hard on the shoulder, “you get back in there and concentrate, you hear? Concentrate, concentrate, on the game. You got it?”   

“Yep, coach, got it.”

The pitcher, meanwhile, had had a conference with his coach. The next pitch was low and outside. Billy figured that their coach had decided to keep pitching him outside, hoping he would swing at a bad pitch.  

With the count 3 and 1, Billy’s coach called another time out. 

“Don’t swing at any bad pitches, Billy,” he said, “make him pitch to you. If it ain’t over the plate, don’t swing. A walk is as good as a hit. Got it?”

“Got it,” Billy replied, but he was thinking a walk is not as good as a hit, a walk is boring, cowardly. 

The next pitch came, low and outside again, ball four for sure, but Billy extended his arms, leaned over the plate, and deliberately hit a slow bouncer toward the shortstop, who was playing very deep. The shortstop and the short center fielder converged on the ball, collided, and tumbled to the ground. While each was examining the strawberry gashes on his elbow, Billy scampered to second.

His coach, who was getting time-out happy, called another one. 

“If Howie hits a fly ball deep enough to left or center and the fielder has to go back on it, tag up and take third, but if the fielder has to come in for the fly ball, hold your base. Okay? You got that?”

Billy said he understood and returned to second base.

Howie did hit a fly ball, an easy popup to short left. The left fielder came in six or eight steps, then two or three more.

Billy tagged up.

“Hold, Billy, hold!” his coach was screaming.

As soon as the ball touched the left fielder’s hands, Billy broke for third. The left fielder, in his haste to get the ball to third, let it slip out of his hand, and Billy rounded third and scampered home. 

It was a nifty play, Billy told himself, but Gloria missed it. She had gone back in the house just as he tagged up at second.

His coach was still at third base, hands on hips, trying to look angry, but Billy could see that he was really smiling.

Gloria was back in her usual spot on the porch when the home team came to bat in the bottom of the seventh. The score was tied, but Richie Barnes had opened the inning by stretching a double into a triple. The winning run was just 45 feet away when Billy came to bat.

He was three for three, with four runs batted in, and here he was, in the final inning, where another clean hit could drive in the winning run from third. Not that Gloria was keeping score, or anything like that. 

The visitors took a time out, and the fielders gathered around their coach at the pitcher’s mound. Billy feared that they were going to give him an intentional walk. 

His coach came down from his third base coaching box and whispered to Billy that he could easily win the game by slapping a grounder to the right side, where there was a huge gap between the first and second basemen.

“If I get an inside pitch, I’ll do it,” Billy whispered back, “but he’s been pitching me outside all day.”

The Coach nodded and walked away.

The first two pitches were outside, way outside in Billy’s view, but the umpire called the second one a strike. The next pitch was a fat one, a batting practice gift, just above the belt and over the outside half of the concrete plate. Billy smacked the ball into deep center, way over the heads of the over-shifted outfielders. The runner on third waltzed home and all Billy had to do was touch first base and the game would be won. He continued around the bases, however, in his practiced home run trot, hoping that Gloria might take notice of his heroic hit. 

The Coach frowned at him as he rounded third, and contemptuously muttered, “Grandstanding!”

Billy looked toward home plate and saw his teammates, plus a few fans, waiting to congratulate him on his game-winning hit. He slowed down to almost a walk to play out his moment of glory for all it was worth. 

As the celebration at home plate was subsiding, Billy felt a timid tap on his shoulder. He hoped it was Gloria, come to give him a victory hug.

It was Laura, The Pest.

“That was some hit,” she said, smiling and stepping closer to him.

She gave him a long hug.

Billy looked over The Pest’s shoulder and saw Gloria, sitting on her porch, tapping her foot aimlessly to some tune on her portable radio. She was looking vaguely off in the distance, pretending not to notice that the visiting team’s shortstop was striding in her direction once again.