A Thousand and One Innings
A Thousand and One Innings
Robert Wallace
Last night’s game had left her too sore from sliding across home twice to get on her knees this morning to pray, but Suzanne certainly wasn’t complaining. She even managed to corral two fly balls in right field. Inherently lonely, right field could be a test of patience. There had been several games in which she had played zero balls; especially with Ruby roaming centerfield. More than once Suzanne had been tempted to tell Ruby she was roaming too far into her position, but Suzanne was the quiet sort, naturally given to acquiescence. The two catches she made last night had her drifting toward center. Both were shallow fly balls, the second a Texas-Leaguer all the way, but Suzanne had got there, cupping the ball just above the turf. She looked at Ruby after tossing the ball to Dorethea, who was standing on second base, doubling up the runner. Ruby had frowned at her, and Suzanne started to ask her what she was frowning about, but she trotted back to her position without saying anything.
After the inning was over, Coach Womack said, “Nice catch,” as Suzanne made her way into the dugout.
She extracted a small booklet that she kept in an extra glove near where she sat on the bench. She used the booklet to try and keep tabs of games. It helped her when she told the story of the game with her father. She jotted down a few sentences.
“That last fly was my ball,” Ruby said. She was standing in front of Suzanne.
“What?” Suzanne asked.
“You heard me,” Ruby said. “Stay out of my field.”
Suzanne was about to say something when Tiny, the Detroit Cats’ catcher, spoke up. “It doesn’t matter who catches it,” Tiny said. “We got the out.” She sat down next to Suzanne.
“What’s going on?” Womack asked.
“Nothing,” Ruby said, grabbing the booklet and pen out of Suzanne’s hand. She turned a page and jotted something on a blank sheet.
“Let me see that,” Womack said, and he took the booklet from Ruby.
Womack read what Ruby had written, and he started to say something to her, but Ruby was already at the end of the dugout, grabbing a drink from the cooler, so he just handed the booklet back to Suzanne. Ruby had written in all caps: STAY OUT OF MY FIELD, and after reading it, Suzanne ripped the page out of the booklet, crumpled it up, and tossed it onto the dugout floor.
Now, because of her soreness, Suzanne prayed standing up, asking for strength. She prayed every morning before heading off to the nursing home. Her father was a patient at Country Club Prime Time, a name Suzanne found laughable. She had today off from her job as a part-time, third-shift, cleaning technician at the Hamtramck automobile plant. Her baseball team, the Detroit Cats, was composed of women in the automobile industry and competed in the Women’s Industrial Baseball League.
Several aides were scurrying from room to room when Suzanne entered the building. They hardly noticed her any longer and none of them greeted her. Her father’s door was open, and she walked in carrying the zinnias she had cut from her garden. He lay in bed; his eyes closed. From the bathroom sink Suzanne filled a clear vase with clean water and placed the zinnias in it. She set the vase on her father’s bedside table.
“Good morning, Dad,” she said.
Her father grunted but didn’t say anything. Except for what her mother used to term “ugly remarks” he said very little.
“I’ll shave you in a bit,” Suzanne said.
Her father put his finger to his mouth and said, “Sshhh.” He sat up in bed.
Suzanne smiled. She tended to raise her voice near her father. He wasn’t hard of hearing, but like many people around the elderly, she slipped easily into thinking he couldn’t hear her.
“We won the game last night, Dad,” Suzanne said. Her father didn’t respond. “I caught two fly balls.” She placed her booklet on the chair next to her father’s bed.
“You were found,” her father suddenly said, looking at Suzanne directly in the face.
“Beg your pardon.”
“You were found. You’re not my child.”
“Oh, Dad. What’s my name?”
“Puddin’ tame, ask me again, I’ll tell you the same.”
“Don’t joke, Dad.”
He got out of bed and left the room, walking down the hall.
“Dad,” Suzanne shouted. “Dad,” she said softly.
Coach Womack punched fly balls to the outfield, spreading them to all fields, sometimes splitting the seams. Suzanne decided to be aggressive today. All day long, after leaving the nursing home, she felt some kind of urgency as if she had drunk too much coffee. She had kept on the move, unable to sit down; her body twitching and spinning with worry about her father. Being in the outfield, running down the fly balls helped her to think about something else. She loved practicing with the Cats, especially on warm days like today when the sky was cloudless and the pop flies seemed to soar in the blue air like plump white birds. Today everyone seemed to feel it. Suzanne wouldn’t use the word magical, but watching the fungo-batted balls soaring languidly in the outfield, each arcing celestially like it lived and breathed in the sky, and the repetition of the ball gently landing in each outfielder’s glove, made it all feel like prayer, something incantational. Suzanne looked at Grace in left field and Ruby in center and she wondered if they felt what she was feeling. But when a fly was hit to right center Suzanne ran hard to snag it. Ruby had the superior speed, but Suzanne had a bead on it and she raced to get there first. The ball zoomed toward the warning track. Suzanne heard Ruby calling for it, but she ignored her. Determined to catch it, Suzanne reached for it, but Ruby undercut her and snagged it just as the ball came down. Suzanne twisted at the last second as Ruby brushed by her. She felt something snap in her left hamstring. Momentarily Suzanne went down on the dirt, but pride caused her to jump back up. She immediately began to limp, and she knew she had injured herself.
“I told you I had it,” Suzanne said.
“I didn’t hear you say anything,” Ruby said.
“You’re always grabbing my flies.”
“What do you mean?”
Suzanne hobbled around. She rubbed her hamstring and she tried to run it off, but it was no use.
“Damn,” Suzanne said. “I mean you are always taking flies that are clearly mine.”
“I’m the centerfielder,” Ruby said. “I’m supposed to take control of the outfield. That’s my job.”
“Not every fly ball is yours, Ruby,” Suzanne said, and she limped off the field.
Once a week Suzanne participated in group meetings with other daughters taking care of demented parents, where she talked about her father’s love of baseball, how that was all he seemed to remember. They nodded in understanding. “He tells me these stories about ball players,” she said, as if they happened yesterday. “I don’t think any of them have played in years.”
When she was young, playing in the front yard of her childhood home, the radio would always be going in the evening while her father sat on the front porch steps, tossing the ball back and forth with her. Sometimes her father would suddenly stop, the ball in his large hand appearing small and insignificant, like Atlas holding the world. As a child, she thought he was trying to listen carefully to the radio, but now Suzanne believed he was trying to transport himself to the game.
Several weeks ago, she told the group, when she was at the nursing home one evening, that he had asked her, “Do you think Cochrane was a better catcher or Dickey?”
“I don’t know, what do you think?” she asked.
“Dickey,” he said. “He had a better arm.”
She lived for these occasional elaborations. Even the telling of her own games no longer seemed to reach him.
“You need to liven it up,” one member suggested.
“What?” Suzanne asked.
“Make something up. Make it more exciting.”
“You mean lie.”
The member smiled. “If you have to.”
Suzanne played catch with Tiny, the Cats’ catcher. Playing catch didn’t disturb her hamstring. Tiny always came to the park early and so did Suzanne. It was another clear, beautiful day. The other players were beginning to arrive at the park when Coach Womack pulled his Explorer into the parking lot. Womack still tended to walk around half dazed on account of his wife leaving him. The rumor was his divorce was about to be finalized, but Womack hadn’t talked about it much. Suzanne saw Womack once at Jason’s Bar in Hamtramck, and she had a couple of beers with him. He talked about it then, obliquely, like he was speaking in metaphor instead of his own life. Since his wife left him, Womack hadn’t seemed like the same coach. He walked around with this vacant look about him, as if he was looking for his missing limb or something.
“Poor Womack,” Tiny said, tossing the ball easily back to Suzanne. “He’s pathetic.”
“Yeah,” Suzanne said. “He’s certainly not the same coach.”
“Maybe we should do something to cheer him up.”
Suzanne waited for Tiny to toss the ball back. She bent her leg and brought it up briefly to her chest, testing the hamstring. It felt better than she thought, and she was hopeful that the injury would sufficiently heal to allow her to play in the next game against the Utica Unicorns.
“Huddle up,” Womack said, frowning, and Suzanne looked at Tiny who had a quizzical look on her face.
“That’s football,” Suzanne said.
“What?” Womack asked.
“Huddle up. That’s football,” Suzanne said.
“Shut up,” Womack said.
Suzanne looked at Tiny, and they both raised their eyes. Womack carefully looked at each player, and Suzanne felt bad news coming, that the automobile industry was pulling the plug on supporting an all-women’s baseball team.
“I have some sad news,” Womack said. He paused. “Ernie Harwell has died.”
Suzanne felt a collected sigh of relief wash over the players.
“We’re going to play a game today,” Womack said. “In honor of Ernie. Suzanne, can you play first base for both teams?”
“I think so,” Suzanne said.
Womack split the teams. “The loser buys beers at Jason’s,” Womack said.
Womack was already there when Suzanne and Tiny entered, nursing his second beer. He was at the bar but came and sat at a table after Suzanne and Tiny ordered beers.
“Where’s everyone else?” Womack asked.
“Everyone else said they had family obligations,” Suzanne said.
Suzanne could see the disappointment on Womack’s face, but she felt relief that Ruby hadn’t come. Womack looked like he was going to say something when a young woman entered Jason’s Bar. She wore a Blue Jays cap. “Marty,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and Suzanne turned to look at Tiny. “Marty,” she whispered, raising her eyebrows.
“Hi, Pandora,” Womack said.
“We’ve got some catching up to do.”
Womack smiled again, and his face turned slightly crimson. Suzanne looked at Womack, and he glanced at her, but he didn’t say anything.
“Marty?” Tiny asked, looking directly at Womack. No one on the team called him by his first name.
“That’s Pandora,” Womack said. “At least that’s what she calls herself when she comes here to drink. She lives in Canada. She teaches folklore at St. Clair College in Windsor.”
Jennie was behind the bar tonight and she turned on the radio at the start of the Tigers game. They were having a moment of silence, remembering the life of Ernie Harwell. Everyone stopped talking and stood up, and when Womack removed his cap he closed his eyes but not before he noticed Pandora sitting at the end of the bar against the wall. He motioned for her to stand up, and Pandora did. When he opened his eyes and looked at Pandora, he smiled again, as if he hadn’t seen her earlier. Suzanne noticed all of this, and she was particularly struck by Womack’s smile, but she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Tiny was staring at Pandora like she was studying her.
“She looks familiar to me,” Tiny whispered to Suzanne. “I think I’ve seen her here before.”
After listening to the eulogy on the radio, Womack waved Pandora over to join them. Womack introduced her to Suzanne and Tiny, and he and Pandora started talking while Suzanne and Tiny listened. Pandora was going on about myth and baseball and how some of the smallest ball players were the best and this segued into Roth’s The Great American Novel and the chapter on the history of midgets in baseball. Suzanne’s mind started to drift to what her father told her, about her being found, and she pictured herself as a baby wrapped tightly in a blanket inside some garbage bin, and she shivered a bit at the thought. Finally, Womack noticed his beer was empty, got up, and walked up to the bar, and that’s when Tiny spoke up and asked Pandora about Roth, and Pandora said he was some white guy, an American writer, who desperately wanted to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.
“Coach has been rather absentminded lately,” Tiny said.
“You mean because his wife left him?” Pandora said.
“Yeah,” Suzanne said.
Pandora told them she was from across the river. “I teach a course called The Accidental Folklorist.”
Womack brought back two beers and put one in front of Pandora.
“Accidental?” Suzanne asked. “What do you mean?”
“I just like the title,” Pandora said. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s all myth anyway. Made up stories.”
“Folkloric,” Womack said. “Myth-making. You know, like a story that becomes larger than truth. A fable.”
Suzanne and Tiny looked at Womack like they didn’t know him.
“To Ernie Harwell,” Pandora said, raising her bottle of Stroh’s.
After the toast, Suzanne said, “My father can go back to the beginning when Ernie first came on the radio for the Tigers.”
“What a voice,” Pandora said. “He could melt frozen butter with that voice.”
“Maybe that’s what I should do with my father,” Suzanne said. “Make up stories.”
No one said anything.
“He’s been making up one about me,” Suzanne said. “He even told me I was found.”
“Found?” Tiny said.
“Yes,” Suzanne said. “He said I was found in the garbage as a baby.”
“Wow,” Tiny said. “What a thing to say.”
Suzanne took a sip of beer. She looked at Womack, Tiny, and Pandora, and she could see that they didn’t know what to say, and for a moment she felt sorry for them. She looked around the bar, and it had started to fill up. The radio was on low, and she could barely hear it, so she had no idea how the Tigers were doing. She watched Womack and Tiny walk up to the bar to get more beers.
Suzanne finally looked at Pandora and said, “Is Pandora your real name?”
Pandora laughed. “It’s Anna. When I cross the river I become incognito.”
“That’s how I feel around my father. He lives in a nursing home.”
“My mother too.”
“Oh.”
“I tell her stories.”
“What do you mean?”
Pandora took a sip of beer. “I used to read to her,” she said. “But my mother didn’t seem to like me reading to her. So one day I put down the book and started making up my own stories and, to my surprise, she took to them.” She took another sip of beer. “It’s like Scheherazade in reverse.”
“What?”
“The Thousand and One Nights. It’s a book about a young woman who has to keep telling stories in order for the king not to kill her. I keep telling my mother stories and it seems to keep her going.”
On the drive back home, Suzanne thought about what Pandora had told her. She wasn’t sure she could make up stories, but when she turned on the radio in the car so she could listen to the last of the Tigers game, she heard Ernie’s voice, and for a moment she wondered if some time warp had happened, and Ernie Harwell was still alive. But the game was actually over, and the broadcast was closing with a tribute to Ernie who was telling a story, not about baseball, but about family and life, and Suzanne suddenly had the idea she could try and tell her father stories. The stories need not be true. She could even tell a story about a game that never ends, like Scheherazade. Baseball could be like that; it has the potential to go on forever.
Robert Wallace has published baseball fiction, poems, and creative nonfiction in Sport Literate and Aethlon. He is a previous winner of Sport Literate’s Sports Shorts contest, as judged by Dinty W. Moore, and the ’70s contest, judged by Jack Bedell. His novel, Smell the Bright Cold, will be published by Main Street Rag Publishing Company in July 2025. It is about Caddy Compson, the iconic character in William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury. His short story collection As Breaks the Wave Upon the Sea was published by Main Street Rag Publishing Company in 2021.
Jeff Brain is a San Francisco-based baseball artist and poet. He was a featured poet at the first two National Baseball Poetry Festivals, and now serves on the Poets Committee of the NBPF held each May in Worcester, MA.
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