What Paul Ginackes Could See
What Paul Ginackes Could See
By Francois Bereaud
Boston Red Sox Spring Training 1978, Winter Haven, Florida
The early-round picks, undrafted rookies, hopefuls and wannabes alike, crowd around Ted Williams. Ted speaks: “Watch the seams on the ball as it leaves the pitcher’s hand. They’ll tell you exactly what’s coming. Every time.” There’s quiet as the mortals think this over. Then a voice.
“C’mon Ted, no one can do that. Except maybe you.”
“The fuck’s wrong with you? And you called him ‘Ted’. You called Ted Williams, the greatest hitter ever, ‘Ted’, Jesus, Paul, you’re something else.”
Paul Ginackes squints through the late afternoon sun at his roommate. “What’s the difference. I’m not making this team anyway.”
Miramonte High School, Orinda, California 1972
“Paul, the purpose of this appointment is to discuss your college applications.”
“I’m not applying to any colleges.”
“Of course you are. Your grades are decent and Coach Walker says you want to try and play college ball.”
“I’m going to play college ball. I sent a letter to the University of Miami. They need a shortstop.”
Little League, Orinda, California 1966
Giants vs. Reds in the last game of the season for the Major’s division. Winner clinches first place and a playoff bye. Top of the 6th with the Giants chasing two runs. One out, runners at first and second, Paul’s on deck. The kid at the plate, Jimmy Hartfield, lines a sharp single to left. Paul grins, bases will be loaded. He takes a step toward the plate but stops. Robin Fetters, the runner at second, his neighbor, is rounding third, the coach yelling at him to stop. What’s he doing? The left fielder releases the ball. It travels on a rope toward the catcher. The ball smacks the catcher’s glove before Robin has even gone into his slide. Robin comes wide toward the plate, hits the dirt trying to evade the tag but lands awkwardly on his side. The catcher tags him on the shoulder. Paul hears the thud of the glove, the umpire signals out. The guy on first has gone to third and now Jimmy Hartfield makes a delayed run to second. The catcher stands straight and fires the ball across the mound. Eyes go to second. Except Paul’s. He watches the catcher. The catcher takes an exaggerated step back, his right foot in the air. It comes down on Robin’s ankle. The field umpire signals out at second. Robin screams. Paul pounces.
Before he’s pulled off, Paul removes the catcher mask and punches him squarely in the face twice, the kid’s nose gushing blood after the second blow.
Paul is suspended for the season. His coach tells him he’ll probably never play again.
Calling from the road, 1998
“I got it.”
“Got it?”
“The promotion, Linda, the promotion. Senior Sales Manager. It’ll mean more travel, but 50% raise, at least. You can stop teaching those night classes and concentrate on writing.”
“Oh. That’s great Paul.”
“‘That’s great?’ That’s it?”
“Sorry. I like the night classes. You travel a lot already. And Andy’s not home yet. I called the school, he didn’t go today.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
College World Series, Omaha, Nebraska 1974
“Ginackes, it’s over. Get off the bench.”
Paul had looked at his feet during the whole post-game presentation. Who wanted a runner-up trophy? The final game wasn’t close and the USC kid made all tournament shortstop. Still, he’d batted .337 in Omaha and there were scouts flooding all over.
“Now, Ginackes, move your ass.”
A retirement community, South Carolina, 2018
“When’s our tee time?” Linda looks sleepy, cradling her coffee mug, newspaper folded to reveal the crossword puzzle. They’ve been together more than forty years. Now they’re a retired couple, bought the home cash with his Vice President’s retirement package. Andy had found his way, somehow, though they didn’t see him much and that hurt.
“I thought we’d skip today.”
“Really?” Linda sounds surprised and maybe even disappointed. She’s come to golf later but now matches his fervor for the impossible game.
“I got this thing,” Paul says.
Linda peers over her reading glasses. “Thing? You’re mumbling, out with it.”
“The local high school league needs umpires.” Paul looks away.
Linda drops the paper. “Umpires? You?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, the last kid’s game you attended – Andy was what, 12 – didn’t go so well.”
Paul winces. He’d behaved badly. His kid never liked baseball and refused to play after that. “I’m older now, mellower even.”
“True,” Linda says. “But don’t you need some kind of training?”
Paul stares out the bay window. A golf cart cruises in the distance, must be the 6 a.m. tee-timers. “I might have let some information drop.”
“College World Series?”
“Yeah, quite possibly.” Paul suppresses a grin.
Linda laughs. “And quite possibly Pawtucket Red Sox as well?”
“Damn, you know me.”
“I do. Look, go for it. But don’t get hurt and no fights.”
“Fights?”
“Just saying.” Linda looks down at the crossword. Paul squints, trying to visualize the seams of a baseball as it approaches the plate, this time from an umpire’s vantage point.
Easton Baseball Sales Rep Meeting, Thousand Oaks, California 1996
Brian Evinson, Vice-President of Sales, closes the meeting with the standard roundtable. Sales reps squirm, impatient to get up. They’ve been sitting for two hours with no lunch provided. Each passes as Brian nods in their direction. Paul is the second to last to go. He speaks up. “We’re doing this all wrong.”
“Excuse me,” Brian says.
“The focus on baseball is all wrong. Softball is where it’s at for us. Guys like me,” Paul stands and slaps his belly, “that’s our market. And high school girls. Softball is exploding.”
High school baseball field, South Carolina, 2018
Paul Ginackes, former College World Series standout, former three-year Pawtucket Red Sox starter, former Easton Vice-President chiefly responsible for the company’s almost triple-fold sales increase in a two-year span, and former Ted Williams acquaintance, is umpiring his fourth game and first behind the plate. It’s early in the season but there’s a buzz about the game as the teams, the two best in the region, each have players who’ve garnered Division I attention. Paul has to park further away from the field than any of his previous games.
Before the game, Charles, the crew lead who’ll be on the third base line today, pulls the umpires together. “Ignore them,” he motions to the almost full bleachers, “And Paul: just balls and strikes, balls and strikes.” Paul nods.
The first five innings are routine. Both pitchers are on and the game moves quickly. There’s a borderline third strike call in the bottom of the third that draws groans from the crowd but Paul saw what he saw and never looks aside. Charles gives him a discreet thumbs-up.
Still scoreless in the sixth, the visitor’s six hitter walks to start the inning. The seven hitter lines a ball down the left field line which the third baseman does well to knock down but has no chance to throw anyone out. The eight batter strikes out swinging on a high fastball, on which the runners both steal and advance with no throw. The nine hitter walks to the plate. “Get after it Chase,” says a loud voice to Paul’s right. “Do something, dammit.” The dad undoubtedly. Paul shudders. The first pitch comes in hard to the sweet part of the zone. Bat stays on the shoulder, obvious strike one. The pitcher, one of the prospects, smiles as the ball hits his glove on the return throw. He knows the batter is intimidated and overmatched.
“Swing the damn bat!” This cry is louder than the first. Paul holds his breath and resists the urge to turn to the right. The pitcher releases the second pitch and, though he can’t see the seams, Paul knows it’s a breaking ball. The batter doesn’t and swings way out in front, almost falling down as the ball drops in the catcher’s glove. “Jesus,” Paul hears the dad say. The third pitch is a repeat of the first. The kid flails meekly and maybe gets a piece but it doesn’t matter as the ball pops into the catcher’s mitt, strike three. The kid returns to the dugout, shoulders down. “Fucking loser,” says the voice, still loud. Now Paul turns right and sees the man. It’s like going back in time to Andy’s last game. An angry dad, red-faced, fists clenched, face snarled. Paul starts to raise his hand but thinks better of it, a warning here might only escalate the situation.
The lead-off hitter struts to the plate. Paul remembers he doubled his last time up. The pitcher shakes off a sign and delivers. The righty batter swings late but makes good contact sending a hard-hit ball toward the first baseman. If he fields it cleanly and takes a few steps to his left, the inning will be over. Paul thinks about the previous hitter who will feel even worse with no runs across. The first baseman takes the ball on one hop but doesn’t move toward the bag. What he’s doing? Instead he plants his back foot and fires toward Paul. Paul glances left, the runner on third is barreling home. Ball, mitt, and runner all arrive at once. Paul sees the runner’s foot touch the home plate. He also sees the catcher’s mitt swipe the runner’s knee. The problem is he doesn’t see the order. Or he saw it and doesn’t remember what he saw. He doesn’t know. Both kids look up at him in expectation. He looks toward third base, Charles’ face is impassive. There’s no one else to make this call. But he can’t. He doesn’t know. Something has happened. He thinks about the previous hitter stranding two runners in front of his abusive dad. “Safe!”
The runner stands and gives Paul an incredulous smile. Boos rain from the crowd. The home team’s manager is out of the dugout. “You can’t be serious,” he says when he gets within earshot. “He was out by a foot.” Paul says nothing, looking beyond him toward the visitor’s dugout where the runner is getting high-fives. The manager is firm but calm. Boos continue as well as a couple of shouts from the stands. Paul can’t make them out but hears the now familiar voice, “Jesus, saved by the dumbass ump.” Charles eventually comes to the plate and the manager leaves. The game continues unremarkably. The 1-0 advantage holds and the booing resumes when the home team’s clean-up hitter lines out to center to end the game.
The home manager shakes his head at Paul as he signs the scorecard. Charles walks with Paul out to the parking lot. “You caused quite a stir there.” Paul says nothing, glad Charles is abiding the umpire code and not asking him if he was sure.
Paul sits at the kitchen island and opens his third beer.
“Want to talk about it?” Linda asks from the sofa, computer on her lap.
“Not really.” He pulls on the bottle, IPA something.
“Andy called while you were at the game.”
Paul swallows hard at the mention of his son’s name. He doesn’t look at Linda, “Anything new?”
“At the end of the month, he’s taking a week off and heading to Utah for some fly fishing. He told me to see if you wanted to join him.”
Paul stares at Linda who still looks at her laptop. “Fly fishing?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s his latest thing.” Linda looks up and moves her glasses to her forehead. “I know you’re busy with umpiring but it makes me happy he thought about you.”
Paul sets his beer down on the counter harder than intended and some liquid bubbles over and spills out the top. “Ted Williams is in the Fly Fishing Hall of Fame.”
“What?”
“You know, Ted Williams, the—”
“I know who Ted Williams is, Paul. But why are you thinking about him? I don’t see what he has to do with anything.”
Paul spins his index finger around in the pooled beer then stands. “You’re right, I don’t see what fucking Ted Williams has to do with anything. Have you seen my phone?”
“‘Fucking Ted Williams?’ Paul, what’s going on? What happened today?”
Paul pulls his phone from the pocket of the jacket he’d thrown on a chair. “I’ll tell you, but I’m calling Andy first. I’d love to see him in Utah. To hell with umpiring. And Ted Williams.”
This was the runner-up for the 2023 Sidd Finch Fiction Prize.
Francois Bereaud is a husband, dad, full-time math professor, mentor in the San Diego Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. His stories and essays have been published online and in print. His work has earned Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. He serves as an editor at Roi Fainéant Press and Porcupine Literary. The Counter Pharma-Terrorist & The Rebound Queen is his published chapbook. In 2024, Cowboy Jamboree Press will publish his first full manuscript, San Diego Stories, which is the realization of a dream. You can find links to his writing at francoisbereaud.com.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72. You can also visit his shop on Red Bubble.
The Twin Bill is a nonprofit organization with 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. You can support The Twin Bill by donating here.