The Walnut Derby
The Walnut Derby
A.L. Rogers
It was early September, but summer lingered in the warm breeze. I pushed my eight-year-old in a swing in our backyard. We talked easily that day—which was rare for us. There was always something making us bicker. I was still learning how to be a dad. Meanwhile, he was in a phase of testing the boundaries.
I was describing the differences between college and professional baseball, hoping it wasn’t boring him. Two ancient walnut trees towered over us, eavesdropping on our conversation.
“Players use wooden bats in the big leagues,” I said. “Like a Louisville Slugger.”
“What’s a Louisville Slugger?” His question, as pure and honest as a new baseball, caught me by surprise. Had we never played with my old bat? Could it be that he didn’t yet know what a Louisville Slugger was? What it looked like, felt like, hit like?
I realized we were at the threshold of a rite of passage, and I ached to make a good memory with him. I ran to the garage and hoped the goodwill between us would last a little longer. Quick as a stolen base, I emerged with the worn, graying Slugger I’d used when I was not much older than he was.
***
Our home was built in 1976. According to Google, the walnut trees in our backyard could be anywhere from 150 to 250 years old. They tower over our little house in the Midwest. Each year they drop thousands of walnuts on our 1.5-acre plot of land. We hear them drop from late August through mid-November. During storms they thunder down on the roof, the deck, and all over the yard. On windy nights my wife and I sometimes lay in bed and listen to them fall. It’s like a roster full of Tolkien’s giant tree people taking midnight batting practice.
Navigating the backyard during walnut season is like navigating a sandlot with the biggest infield boulders you’ve ever seen. Some years I consider collecting them in buckets, then burning them in my backyard—a funeral pyre of squirrel food. Most of the time we just try to dodge them or play in the front yard.
But on that September day, with a Louisville Slugger in hand, I decided that these walnuts were no longer just squirrel food. They were batting practice.
***
My son and I squared off near the back of the yard, behind our treehouse, equidistant between two of the largest walnut trees. They watched us like grizzled old managers, arms folded and a mouthful of chew. We were about to play ball in their presence, and they would judge our worthiness.
My son and I each donned a pair of gardening gloves to protect our hands from getting stained by walnut juice. He held the slugger while I held four walnuts at once. A 34-inch wooden bat is heavy for an eight-year-old. A righthander, he placed his left hand at least three inches from the stub, while his right hand was a third of the way up the barrel. With this grip he could make a chopping motion at the pitches.
I pitched underhand and he quickly started to make contact. Whenever he did, the walnuts were pulverized and made a terrifically organic, flesh-splitting sound. Though my son clearly wished he could hit more effectively, and though he tired after fifteen minutes, I could tell that he was as having fun.
“Can I take a few swings?” I asked when he was ready for a break. “Will you pitch to me?”
“Sure.”
My boy started under-handing walnuts to me, and for a brief moment I was Babe Ruth. I was able to send their hard, dark cores flying from our yard, out from under the towering trees, through the branches of a neighboring maple, and into a field behind our neighbor’s house. The sound of their splattering was incredible. My son loved it.
After he grew tired of pitching, I tossed the walnuts vertically and continued to hit. I had plenty of strikes (it’s hard to wait on your own pitch) but I connected with enough to keep him interested for a few more minutes.
When we were finally through, I bent double and wiped the bat clean in the grass. The walnuts left chips and divots in the barrel and dark stains on the wood. Each piece of broken flesh left a scar. Each successful hit came at a cost. Yet the bat looked better for the wear and tear. Like a favorite hat, or Jimmy Ray Vaughn’s Stratocaster. I told him that from now on we’d call it “Crusher.”
This was my son’s first experience with a Louisville Slugger. I felt something for just a second that I hadn’t felt much that year—connection. Instead of bickering with him maybe, hopefully, I’d done something right by him.
“Now you know what swinging a Louisville Slugger is like, buddy. Now you know how major league players feel when they swing a wooden bat at home plate.”
I did not see a halo of celestial light around him or the bat. I have no idea if he was overcome by baseball magic the way I was, or if his mind was already on to the next thing. Regardless, we made a memory I’ll cherish. I hope he will too.
A.L. Rogers is an editor and author living in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is an award-winning short story writer and the author of four books. He has been published in Splickety Magazine, on DailyScienceFiction.com, and on ElectricLiterature.com. Find him on Instagram and Twitter @ALRstories.