Good Seats, Eh Buddy?
Good Seats, Eh Buddy?
By Reuben Sanchez
“Charlie, can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes. He was wrapped in a body brace, lying in a contraption of metal bars and weights and pulleys, staring at the greyish-blue ceiling, hearing the rhythmic click of a machine he couldn’t see.
He knew someone was sitting in a chair next to the bed. His parents decided they would alternate staying with him around the clock. His father carefully leaned in over the bed so he could see his face.
“Charlie,” he whispered, “are you in pain?”
“No,” he answered, and it was the truth, for he felt nothing.
He closed his eyes again, pretending to sleep, awaiting the dream again. He suspected the dream might matter, if only he could understand it. Mr. Baseball was right: it was indeed a classic at-bat, one for the ages. But how did it end? Did it end? And if it did, why wasn’t he allowed to witness its ending? To understand its ending? To marvel at its ending?
***
The ballpark is empty and quiet as I stand near home plate, contemplating it. This is unlike me, for I am not prone to contemplation. I have always been a pragmatist. Keep your eye on the ball or it will gobble you up. Keep your shoulder tight when you throw. Always know where you are in the count. Have an idea of what to expect from any given pitcher on a 2-2 pitch. Turn your wrists on the follow-through when you swing.
Then I am sitting in the bleachers, a game in progress. I am in my beloved Duke City High School ballpark, home of the Lions. I sit directly behind the backstop, five rows up, top row, a bird’s eye view of each pitch. Although I see the teams and the umpire on the field, there is no chatter out there. They are dead to the world. The umpire breaks the silence: “Play ball!”
I watch through the wire mesh as the right-handed batter steps into the batter’s box, the pitcher, a southpaw, looking in for the signal. With no baserunners, the southpaw works from the windup. He shakes off the first signal, the second signal, then someone sitting next to me asks excitedly, “Good seats, eh, buddy?”
I recognize Bob Uecker’s voice. Mr. Baseball, the famous sportscaster, star of beer commercials, and a catcher in the Majors back in the day. I turn to him, and there he sits in a checkered sports coat and tie. We are the only ones in the bleachers.
“Hi, Bob,” I say, then hear the catcher’s mitt pop, echoing like thunder through the ballpark.
“Stee-rike one!” yells the umpire. I missed the first pitch, and I hate missing any pitch. Each one matters. I focus through the wire mesh. As pitcher and batter get set, Uecker sounds like he’s calling a game: “Buddy, you are one lucky fella, because you are witnessing the legendary Free Will pitching to the legendary Destiny. Now, they call Free Will the Crazy Southpaw for a reason, and they call Destiny the Crazy Righty for a reason. And do you know why?”
“Not really, Bob,” I say.
“Because Free Will and Destiny are both crazy! But boy oh boy, are they great ballplayers, or what? Yes sir, this will be an at-bat for the ages. Where else’re you gonna see Righty Destiny versus Southpaw Free Will? Why, it might even be better than Tastes Great versus Less Filling!”
Again, I turn to him, to ask him, politely, because I like Bob Uecker, to let me concentrate on the game. But when I do the umpire yells: “Ball one!”
I missed the second pitch. 1 and 1. Baseball demands concentration, whether as player or as spectator. I must be a spectator, though strangely, I do not know for whom to root, the pitcher or the batter. I know I am in my ballpark, but I cannot tell the home team from the visiting team, for the uniforms on both sides are grey. Away uniforms, colorless, lifeless, like the players themselves, for still there is no chatter out there.
And I can’t help but wonder why I am not out there playing, instead of sitting here in the bleachers. My ballpark, my game, and I am a passable fine ballplayer, a second baseman headed for the Major League Baseball June Amateur Draft in less than a week, then the Rookie Leagues, then the Majors, as sports writers have predicted for some time.
“I wish I was out there too, buddy,” says Uecker, as though reading my mind. “I used to be a catcher.”
“I know,” I say, without turning away from the pitcher, the catcher, the batter, and the umpire, who now stand there, heads bowed solemnly. Then I notice all the other ballplayers on both sides standing in front of their respective dugouts, heads bowed too.
“Not a very good one, I admit. But I played in the Majors for six years.”
“Right.”
“Started out with my hometown Milwaukee Braves. Then the Cardinals, then the Phillies, then finished up with the Braves again, but by then they were in Atlanta.”
“It was a good career.”
“I know what you’re thinking, buddy. I had a lifetime batting average of .200, I admit. But I also had a .981 fielding percentage! How about that?”
“You were a great defensive catcher, Bob.”
“Ah, heck, thanks, buddy. Of course, people tend to knock me for all those passed balls. A ton of them. I guess I set a record there, but heck! you try catching Phil Necro!”
“A knuckleballer is hard to catch.”
“You know it! Hey, buddy, you know the best way to catch a knuckleball?”
“How?”
“Wait until it stops rolling, then pick it up.”
“Right, Bob.”
“You know, I thought my life was over when the Braves released me.” My eyes drift over those guys hanging their heads. They look so melancholy. Why? They are on a baseball field, playing the greatest game. “And look at me now!” I do not look, but I know he does not want me to look. “I’m proof of life after baseball. Do me a favor and hang on to that thought, eh, buddy?”
The umpire turns around and yells through the backstop, “Shut up, Charlie! You’re depressing everyone!”
“Why’s he yelling at me?” I say.
Uecker responds, “Because he’s blind as a bat! Typical umpire. Why, I could have had a much higher batting average if not for those blind-as-a-bat umpires, eh, buddy?”
“Sure, Bob.”
“Play ball!” screams the umpire. The players raise their heads. The pitcher and catcher once again position themselves. I see the third pitch, the fourth, the fifth, and so on–all accompanied by Uecker’s “Wows!” and “Hecks!” and “Goshes!” and “Whattayaknows!” and “Good Seats!” and so on. I do so admire the way Mr. Baseball calls a game. And the at-bat is a duel between two talented ballplayers. I do not care if they are legends. Anyway, legends can be boring. But these guys, Destiny and Free Will, the righty and the southpaw, they are passable fine ballplayers.
“Lots of pitches, eh, buddy?” says Uecker.
“That’s right,” I say.
“Must be like ten or twelve pitches so far. Quite an at-bat! Wow! But we do have good seats, eh, buddy?”
“You bet, Bob.” I watch, mesmerized by the pitcher, by the batter. It has been a full count for a while, as the batter fouls off more pitches—good pitches. Each of these ballplayers is doing his job, and it looks like it could last forever. When you think about it, it could go on forever, as long as they don’t make the last out in a game where there is a lead.
“This is as it should be,” I manage through the tears. And why should I be crying? After all, I am watching baseball, the greatest game.
“Good seats, eh, buddy?”
“Yes, Bob,” I say. “Good seats.”
Reuben Sanchez taught English for many years. His baseball fiction has appeared in Spitball, Aethlon, Southwestern American Literature, and other journals. He lives in New Mexico, and has remained a loyal Mets fan ever since attending graduate school in New York.
Andy Lattimer is a gay guy who lives in Southern California. He makes comics, most of which are about baseball. You can read them on his website, andylattimer.com
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