Set Position
Set Position
By Shea West
Don’t forget to breathe.
This is the one rule your father never gave you, but it’s the one that you use throughout all of the strikeouts in your life. The way that you settle into the rhythm of your breathing is part routine, part superstition, in the same way that Marino rubs his lucky rabbit’s foot before taking first base and the way that Johnson never shaves his mustache for the entire season.
Place your pivot foot against the pitching rubber.
Historically it’s been easy for men to use sports analogies to explain things to their sons, and so your father issues the twelve baseball rules to help you through the infields and outfields of your childhood. Twelve feels like so many rules at once, yet it takes twelve months for your mother and father to be ruled out on the double play.Your mother and father are two offensive players on the same team. The officials call this a “pitcher’s best friend,” but you don’t think there is anything friendly about the way your parents continue to field ground balls at one another.
Face both shoulders to first base because you’re a lefty.
He makes sure to invite you to the table of manhood one sweltering summer day, thirty miles away in his new home. Thirty miles or a 45-minute drive. That’s how far away your father moved when he and your mother ended things. You’ve always been a numbers guy. 91.7 mph fastball with 2.0 IP, 0 H, 0 R, 0 ER, 0 BB, 3 K, 0 HR, 29-18 PC-ST, 2.58 ERA.
But sometimes your shoulders face third because you’re ambidextrous.
The thing about sitting at the table is–as a boy you know that acting self-important is frowned upon–but as a man, you can act however you want. As an adult, your father doesn’t have to build the table—his arrogance is enough to sit there feeling chesty and unaccountable for his actions. Accepting the invite feels like a switch hit driven into your mother’s heart, but you want to hear your father out. And so you sit at the table anyway.
Hold the ball in both hands in front of you.
Your father chooses that day to toss you a baseball, much like the one that’s in your hands right now. It’s a brand-new ball, one without any scuffs and white leather that shines so bright you hesitate to hold the damn thing. Preservation of the ball in this moment feels necessary and so you cradle it in your hands and pray that your palms don’t sweat and cause the red dye of the threading to bleed. Bleeding is hard to stop.
This is your set position.
Your father says to you, “Son, it’s time you learned how to play the game.”
This is a milestone that signifies you’ve arrived at the doors of manhood, even if your voice hasn’t dropped to a rich baritone just yet. Other boys in the neighborhood receive baseballs from their dads, while you know that this is symbolic, you never expect your father to give you one. You find it funny that your father waits until he moves 45 minutes away to finally show you some sort of attention.
Bring the ball up to your chest.
The ball in your hands is an invite that you aren’t expecting—one that says you can be on the same team with your father. You do your best to not act outwardly surprised, but your insides turn like Marino when his feet pound from first, to second, to third. The bottom half of your still chubby, undefined chin hangs open as if you’d just witnessed The Great Bambino himself hit a home run.
Force the runner back to first with a false step.
Your father asks why you look green in the gills, and you just shrug because fewer words with your old man is always easier. He isn’t good at coaching you about how to act around girls or how to get the perfect shave. You think it impossible that this man can teach you about the dynamics of ball throwing. Pitching and throwing are precise, and precision is something your father fails at in every aspect.
Return to set position, wait for the signal from your catcher.
You search your brain for another time when your father looks as serious as he does now, and you come up with nothing. He’s always been an easy-going guy, never one to get his feathers ruffled or to cry foul when the universe slights him. Head nods and nose swipes are all decoy signs that he wants to be a dad and not to execute the play of being a family man. He wants to steal home plate and speed up the whole game of life, and revel in the celebration that comes with scoring a run.
Two fingers point down and swirl to the right, you nod your head in agreement.
The smell of his aftershave is stronger than usual, a mix of sage and spiced cloves decorate the air. The aroma announces that this day will remain a part of your sense memory, in the way that the dirt on the ball field after a heavy summer rain does now. Your father goes to great strides to demonstrate that this is a special day.
“We’re going down to the field,” he says.
That’s all he mutters, but it is enough to feel caught in a pickle between him and your mother.
It’s a blind pickoff, but you trust your catcher.
The field by your father’s home is much greener than the one by your mother’s house. There are field lights and a covered shelter over the benches, with a perfectly sloped pitcher’s mound. The field is unaffected by players with coarse-bottomed cleats, the kind that can destroy the green and rip into your skin when colliding with the third baseman. He rattles off the rules before he even shows you how to hold the ball.
“Never give up. It’s okay to strike out. Do your absolute best. Teamwork is the best work.” You stop him at that rule, as your father is a poor teammate if there ever was one.
Drive the ball to the second baseman.
Before you become a pitcher yourself, you consider becoming an umpire for a bit. You think if you can control the play on the field and bench players for unsportsmanlike conduct everything will be copasetic.
“Whose team are you on, dad?”
Watch the showdown between the first and second baseman with your glove open.
He ignores the slight and continues with more rules.
“Keep your eye on the ball.” He holds the ball right in front of you for emphasis.
“Aim for the fences. Always swing hard. Cheaters never win.”
Well, that was rich, you thought.
Scoop up the loose ball and tag the player out. Caught trying to steal.
The mound you stand on makes you feel ten feet tall. You, in this moment, are a bigger man than he will ever be. You haven’t played the field yet, and you know immediately to put pressure on your old man and pitch hard. The small expanse of your chest barrels into him and you both fall from the mound into the dirt.
Set your position, no wild pitches.
He lays there as if he’s been waiting for you to pummel him. He wants a punishment in the form of a split lip to brandish like a pennant for the world series of fatherhood. You stand back up in shock at your explosion. Your father wipes the blood from his lip and stares at the smear on the back of his hand. Bleeding is hard to stop and your father continues on with his ridiculous rules anyway.
“Sacrifice yourself in the most crucial of moments. Your brain is your most important muscle.”
Face the batter. Wind up. Breathe.
As you make your way back to the mound, you let your bloodied father stare at your back for longer than you know he feels comfortable. The heart has always been your most important muscle. The thing that pumps blood through your entire circulatory system. The heart muscle gives your brain oxygen, and without it, there’d be no way for your brain to be capable of sustaining the kind of heartbreak your father creates in your world.
Your back is still turned when your father mutters through a soft sob. “If it’s what you love, never stop loving.”
Follow through on the pitch and strike the batter out.
You think back on that day when your father dirtied himself in his field errors, bloodied and brazen enough to bestow rules upon you. He is not the kind of man that you will look up to for advice on your knuckleball or your changeup.
He is not your coach. Hell, he’s not much of a father.
Your body remains hunched over the mound from the follow-through as you watch the batter swing and strike out. If you abide by any of the “rules” your father gave you, it’s the last one. You kiss the leather of your dusty glove and point to the stands and smile at your mother. Watch her smile with pride as she wipes small tears from her eyes and you know that this display of affection is not a decoy signal. You answer the call from your mother as you cross home plate and meet your catcher and realize that you only need two rules to make it through this life.
Don’t forget to breathe and return to a set position.
Shea West writes from the PNW where she lives with her husband and three children. By day, (and often night) she works as a Doula and educator, supporting families through all of the nuances that are childbirth and beyond. She often writes contemporary short stories that navigate the cohesiveness of wit and suffering.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72. You can visit his shop on Red Bubble.
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