Squeezed

Squeezed

By Charles Rammelkamp

I didn’t get into coaching my son’s little league team because I have any special knowledge or experience, not even because I really like it all that much. What happened is that when I used to take Jimmy to the peewee league practices after school, I couldn’t stand just sitting around waiting for him to finish. So I told Ed Rausch, the coach, I’d be glad to help out any way I could, shagging fly balls, catching the pitchers, whatever. Well, the next year, Ed asked me to help him, seeing as I’d given him such a hand the year before.
           
So when Jimmy got up into the Midget League for ten, eleven, and twelve-year-olds, I let the coach, Bruce Hollenberg, know I was available. Bruce asked me to be his assistant coach. So here I am. Jimmy’s twelve now and it’s his final year with the Tigers. Over the past five years I’ve gotten to know everybody, the coaches, the players, the parents, the umpires, including Charlie Martin, the meanest, coldest, most vindictive umpire in the league.
           
Anyway, so it’s the second inning of the second game of the season. We’re playing the Mavericks, last year’s champs. There are eight teams in the league and we play each other twice. Then the top four teams compete in best two-out-of-three series.
           
Our catcher, Tommy Wyatt, has a tendency to reach for the ball instead of letting it come to him. At this age, there are a lot of errors, but maybe it has something to do with his being lefthanded. In the Midget League, most of the rules are the same as the majors, except for stealing bases—you can’t break for second until the ball crosses the plate in our league—and it’s only 60 feet between bases instead of 90. But the kids tend to lose their concentration or something. Tommy’s usually a good catcher, but sometimes he reaches.
           
Anyway, it’s the second inning and I’m positioning the left fielder, moving him in a little closer to the infield, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Tommy reaching for the ball. Before I can say anything, the batter swings and nicks his glove, which is an error and the batter gets a free base. But nobody says anything. Finally, the Mavericks’ batter points to Tommy and says interference. The ump is none other than Charlie Martin. Charlie nods his head and signals a free base.
           
Now, I’m not disagreeing with the call. I saw what happened, and it’s a fair call. I don’t really have a thought in my head, but suddenly the words just tumble out of my mouth, not with any protest, not in any tone of complaint, just a remark.

“So now the players are calling the game.”
           
It wouldn’t have been so bad, but a couple of the parents in the stands take it up, and it gets to be almost like a little taunting chant.
           
“What? You let the players call the game?”
           
“The players are makin’ the calls now, looks like.”
           
“Looks like the kids are taking over.”
           
“Don’t fall asleep at the plate, Martin!”
           
Charlie looks over at me, pissed.

“I was gonna call it,” he defends himself.
           
A few innings later we’re up. The Mavericks are pulling away, the score is 7 to 3. My son Jimmy’s coming to the plate. The boy ahead of him, Lucky Lyndon Monroe, has just dribbled a grounder back to the pitcher, and the pitcher makes a wild throw to first, and now Lyndon’s standing on second base, nobody out. In the confusion of the play, nobody’s picked Lyndon’s bat up where he flung it down the first base line on his way from the batter’s box. Nobody seems to notice, and here comes Jimmy striding into the batter’s box.
           
“Hey! Charlie!” I cry out anxiously. I don’t want my son to have an accident after all, tripping over the bat if he gets a hit. “Lyndon’s bat’s in the first base path!”
           
Charlie calls time to go out and get it, and wouldn’t you know it, one of the parents in the stands shouts,

“I know, you were gonna call that one, too!”

Charlie looks at me with smoldering rage. I shrug, the picture of innocence, but he doesn’t give me the benefit of the doubt. That’s two, his look says. One more strike and you’re history.

Finally it’s the bottom of the last inning. The Mavs lead 9-7 but we have runners on the corners and nobody out. Tommy Wyatt’s at the plate. The count’s 3 and 2. I flash the signals to Roddy Fowler at third and Bobby Wilke at first. Run on the pitch. The pitcher looks in for the sign, shakes off a couple, then settles on what I’m sure is his fastball, low and away where Tommy has trouble hitting them.
           
Sure enough, it’s a fastball, but it hangs just long enough for Tommy to connect and slice it off into the left field corner. Roddy trots in with the eighth run and here comes Bobby around the corner at third, digging for the plate with the tie run. The ball comes in ahead of him and the catcher traps it, but Bobby slips around the tag.
           
“Outta there!” Martin declares, and a cry goes up.
           
“You lousy son of a—!” I cry, stamping out to the plate. “Are you blind? He was safe at the plate!”
           
Martin jerks his thumb toward the bleachers.

I’m history, and nothing’s going to change his call, no matter what I or any of the parents say. But it’s the look Martin gives me that makes my blood boil and then go stone cold. He’s smiling a sadist’s malicious, contented grin. I told you I’d get you, his expression says.
           
“It was a perfect use of the squeeze bunt,” Bruce Hollenberg marvels later. “Hats off to Lyndie!”

Tommy Wyatt had made it all the way to third base in the confusion. Nobody on the Mavericks noticed him rounding second until it was too late. Then, with two strikes on him, no less, Lucky Lyndon Monroe bunted the ball so it rolled dead midway between home plate and the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher kind of froze before stumbling off the mound to pick it up, bobbled the ball, and by that time he had no play at the plate, and Lyndie was safe at first, the score tied.
           
The Mavs went on to beat us in extras. If Bobby’d scored the way he should have, would it have made a difference? Would Tommy have gotten to third base safely? Would Lyndon have laid down that perfect bunt and the Tigers gone on to win the game? The next time I saw Charlie Martin he looked at me with a steely gaze, giving nothing away, but I knew we were thinking the same thing, how he’d let his own petty grievances get in the way of fairness. I like to think in his heart of hearts Charlie knew he’d been wrong. But of course there’s no way of knowing.

And besides, it’s only a kids’ game, right?

Charles Rammelkamp is Prose Editor for BrickHouse Books in Baltimore and Reviews Editor for The Adirondack Review. A chapbook of poems, Me and Sal Paradise, was published last year by FutureCycle Press. Two full-length collections have been published in 2020, Catastroika, from Apprentice House, and Ugler Lee from Kelsay Books. A poetry chapbook, Mortal Coil, is forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing.

The Twin Bill is a nonprofit organization with 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. You can support The Twin Bill by donating here.