Glimmering

Glimmering

By Lindsay Borden

Slumped on the bench, sitting back on your tailbone, spitting out sunflower shells, jawin’ and chawin’, taking in the game. That was Randy Little’s idea of heaven, and he had already spent an eternity there. His playing days were so long gone they were like somebody else’s youth. Could that slender left-hander really have been him? Seems unlikely. That fiery, mediocre pitcher who’d blown out his arm early and reinvented himself as a fair-to-middling fielder—him? In his mind, he saw that scrappy young player so clear. Kind of tenderly, too, almost like a son. Heck, anymore, like a grandson. No, no—more like someone else’s grandkid—someone close, but not bone close. Fact was, when he thought back over his childhood idols, those ballplayers he’d grown up rooting for, well, there he was, his own young self, taken his place among them. Not the best of them, not near. More like that guy you pulled for and hoped for and more often than not ended up shaking your head over, or nearly falling over backwards when he actually came through.

Then had come all those years of coaching and managing and coaching again, those years he’d put together and added on to what he’d learned in years of watching and waiting and soaking the game up right into his flesh. He was soggy with it now, boy. Baseball knowledge practically oozed from him, but the more that seeped out, the more he absorbed. I must have seen it all, he thought, but there’s always more to see. If you keep your eyes open. 

Long years—decades now—of growing up and growing old in a boy’s game. And maybe he couldn’t remember exactly what year it was that he had struck out the side on nine pitches, or had grounded out to short in the bottom of the ninth in that game against New York. Maybe he couldn’t remember exactly if a rookie Marcus Smith had been playing for Boston or Detroit that time he’d been caught in a rundown that must’ve lasted a good minute and a half. But Little remembered clear as anything that high meaty fastball he’d got away with to Powell, before reaching back and finishing him off with an 0-and-2 sinker. Remembered standing in against Nichols, that year he won Cy Young and MVP, whenever that was, and knowing the cutter was coming and still getting jammed up and in, feeling the jolt of his bat splintering, and starting down the line holding what was left of the handle and knowing he’d been flummoxed yet again, but this time by one of the best there was. He could almost feel his blood pound, thinking of standing on the dugout steps and screaming, “Tag him! Tag him! Tag him! Tag him!” as if his fielders weren’t trying their damnedest to do just that, while Smith danced back and forth between them like a boy, grinning and sparking, as if there were no dark years of illness and addiction and poverty ahead of him, as if he had all the time in the world to dance along the base path, driving the infield to distraction and the crowd to its feet.

Clear as water, clear and shining like a shard of glass, glinting like ice, layer on layer of memory. The sweet swing of Inohito glimmering fathoms down below the sweet swing of Jordan, the galloping stride of Masterson echoing length for length the galloping grace of Bonds. Speaker Jones stealing second over the headfirst slide of Henderson, on top of the belly-flopping swoosh of…who was that, way down deep? Sneaking in under the tag? Down there, in the shadows?… Scrappy little Randy Little, will ya look at that. No wonder Little’s old eyes glittered, beneath their sleepy lids.

“Bring ‘em in, you think, Gopher?”

“Nah, Kendy. This kid can’t bunt. Hands ain’t soft enough. They’re only bluffin’.”

Mover kept his infield back, and after two failed bunt attempts, the kid at the plate lined straight to Jones and into the double play.

Lindsay Borden is a former chef and reformed actor, as well as an adult-onset Presbyterian pastor. Despite officially retiring, she still gets the almost weekly chance to write and deliver sermons that keep people awake (more often than not). Lindsay lives in New York City where she preaches, volunteers, roots for the Yankees, and writes about the love of God, neighbor, and baseball—not necessarily in that order.

Matt Lawrence is a Spanish/ESOL teacher in Baltimore, Maryland. He is the father of two young men and has been deriving joy from making art for decades. You can check out some of his work on Instagram @Mattymarcador.

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