Thievery: The Early Signs
Thievery: The Early Signs
Rich H. Kenney, Jr.
The bunt sign – it was the one thing that bothered me most as a Little League player. I’d rather suffer the hand stings of a broken bat after hitting a ball on a freezing, cold day than comply with my coach’s cryptic signals to tap the ball into play. To see the snicker on the first baseman’s face after being called out was just the beginning of a week’s worth of rag and razz on the playground at recess.
“It’s a sacrifice you have to make to move a runner to second base,” Coach would explain. “There will come a time for all of you to bunt so you damn-well better get used to it.” Whenever he added “damn-well” to anything, we knew he meant business.
So, before stepping into the batter’s box, we’d glance over at Coach on the sideline who had the final say as to what we could do before digging in at the plate. He did this with an elaborate system of cheek rubs, chin tugs and sleeve scratches. When he added toe taps and wrist flicks to his bag of tricks, he looked like a “flamenco-dancing nincompoop.” Those, the words of Ernie LaRock, our pudgy, wise-cracking catcher.
Signing was something the coach took seriously. More than once, he warned us, “Watch me – don’t miss the signs.” Then, with frightening wide eyes, “If you swing when I flash bunt, you better be damn-well sure you whack it into the Atlantic Ocean.” I wondered if the marina’s water, well beyond the right field wall, was the Atlantic. You couldn’t even see it from home plate. I doubted anyone on the 1963 Boston Red Sox could hit it that far.
Over time, I found the coach’s curious pantomime rather amusing. We’d gather in the dugout before the game and he would reveal the evening’s sly and silent bunt strategy. “Okay, boys, here’s what you’re looking for tonight: right thumb to nose, followed by left hand to throat. As soon as my hand touches my throat, I’ll blink twice. Everybody got that?”
With his catcher’s mask on, Ernie would whisper to me out of the corner of his mouth, “How about a line drive off the old Adam’s apple, Coach? That’s worth a blink or two…”
As time went on, I became a sign thief. I closely watched the antics of opposing teams’ coaches whenever I thought the bunt sign might be on. I studied their stealthy behaviors. There was the dandruff sweeper and the earlobe pincher. There were blessing-rife monks and hell-bent maestros. Many seemed to travel under perpetual clouds of mosquitos. It was shuddersome poetry-in-motion.
All this because of the dreaded bunt.
And then, my time came—my first bunt signal. I’m not sure if it was the left wrist to the belt loop or the two-finger nose-touch but whatever it was, I saw Coach blink twice. I remember the anxiety that came over me and wondered if anybody on the field had deciphered his twisted body language. The first baseman cheated in a few steps and I thought the jig was up. Paranoid now, I called time and trotted over to Coach whose mouth was foaming and eyeballs bulging like a white-lipped tree frog. Halfway there, I thought better of my actions and retreated swiftly to the plate.
With sweat pouring down my neck, I sheepishly looked back at Coach who looked more and more like a bad idea for a new horror movie. I swallowed hard and focused on the pitcher. He sneered back and waved the infielders in closer onto the grass. I could almost feel the breath of the chuckling third baseman. Everyone knew.
I glanced back at the pitcher who kicked at the rubber and went into his windup. This was it. My knees trembled as I squared to bunt. And then: a salt-filled breeze, the sound of a boat’s brass bell, distant seagulls circling the marina…
I tightly gripped my bat and swung as hard as I could at a ball I prayed to be damn-well seaworthy.
Rich H. Kenney, Jr. is a Professor of Practice in Social Work at the University of Texas at Tyler. Recent works include poetry in Plainsongs, Peregrine, and Social Work Today.