KELSO'S SWING, CHAPTER 7
BY DELL FRANKLIN
Games started in the 6 team league at 6:30, 8, and 9:30. The Tides played at 8. Pedaling along the strand, Kelso slowed to shout at Marstrulavich to be at the park at 7:45 and arrived there at 7 to scout the teams playing. Callahan’s Tavern from up on Pacific Coast highway had several sound players, neat uniforms, acted like ball players and had a coach in a Boston Red Sox windbreaker and ball cap who conducted himself like an ex player even if he didn’t look like one. The team they were playing, Warner’s Plumbing, was, along with Murphy’s Pub, the team to beat. Their girls appeared grounded in the game, threw and caught and hit well, carried themselves with jaunty confidence and purpose. According to Jill, they’d won the league four seasons in a row.
Murphy’s Pub, who in the past seasons skunked the Tides, played at 9:30. The Tides were to play Legends, a bar in El Segundo, the 4th best team in the league. Kelso stood just off from the stands sizing up each girl, filing away mannerisms, tendencies, habits, attitudes. Both teams had boy friends and husbands in the stands. Kelso had already informed his girls to warn their husbands and boy friends they were only allowed to root for them and offer no advice whatsoever.
Warner’s executed and placed the ball solidly. Their coach, a tall man in windbreaker and ball cap, delivered a few signs like an ex player. His team was all business, no show. Looking them over, Kelso felt Monica was his only player who could break into their line-up, and maybe Lacey.
They methodically dismantled a solid Callahan’s, 9-3. Afterwards, both teams formed hand-shaking lines near the mound, a new ritual Kelso felt was a hypocritical desecration. His girls had already showed up and played catch on the sidelines. Legends was coached by a mannish woman with a duck-butt hairdo who, when she caught Kelso studying her, leveled him with a suspicious gaze. She hit infield like a man and demanded and received subservience from her players.
Kelso addressed his girls in the dugout. “We’re gonna drive their shortstop crazy,” he told them as they sat waiting to take infield. “We’re gonna hit every ball at her or the thirdbaseman. Even you, Lacey, if you can. We’re gonna torment the left side of their infield until they crack and dread having the ball hit to them. I’ll coach third. The only sign I’ll give tonight is the hit-and-run. What’s the hit-and-run? Well, whoever is on first base, or any other base, if you see me scratch my balls, you run AFTER the pitch is delivered. The batter, if you see me scratch my balls, swing at the pitch no matter where it is and try and chop it on the ground. If you can, chop it to the right side. That will be the only time you do not try and pull the ball. Now, what is the hit-and-run?”
“Scratch your balls,” Bobbi said, giggling.
“Okay. Now, Marstrulavich was supposed to hit you infield, but he’s late, so I’ll have to do it. And pay no attention to Marstrulavich except when he tells you how many outs there are. Do NOT look to him for signs. He’s not allowed to give signs. He’s too stupid to give signs. He’s a Polock. Polock’s are traditionally stupid, dim-witted people, the butt of jokes, and Marstrulavich is no exception.”
“My mother’s Polish,” Becki said, miffed.
“Female Polocks, in almost all cases, can be considered intelligent if they break from tradition and marry non Polocks. Your last name is Langford, so I trust your mother is smart, Becki.” Kelso’s attention turned to Marstrulavich, at last shambling up. “Well, well,” he went on. “Here comes Marstrulavich, a person of no-account whatsoever. Now girls, what’s the hit-and-run?”
“You scratch your balls,” was the unified chant.
After Marstrulavich hit a tidy infield, Legends came up and the first two hitters smacked balls right at Maria, who threw them out. The third hitter hit a long shot into left field that Monica ran down easily. The girls came off the field grinning. The Lacey led off chopping a ball over the pitcher’s head and beating it out. Kelso felt no need for a hit-and-run with her on first. Maria hit a high bouncer to third. By the time it came down, Lacey was near second, and when Maria beat the throw to first, Lacey took third. Then Monica drilled a bomb into left-center, scoring both girls, and the Tides’ women jumped up and yelled and screeched as Kelso waved them around. Jill, bat level on her shoulder, hot a hard grounder into left field, scoring Monica. Kelso scratched his balls. Jill took off. Becki slapped a grounder to shortstop, who became distracted with the runner headed to second and hesitated throwing to first. Kelso scratched his balls. Penny bounced a ball the secondbaseman, who had to go to first. Annie hit a weak pooper to second. Kelso clapped his hands as Claire came up to the plate.
“Claire the terror!” he yelled. She bounced a ball to the shortstop, who booted it. Four runs in. The shortstop was near tears as her coach sat scowling. Beth popped up, ending the inning.
Kelso and Marstrulavich sat side by side in the dugout. Their support in the stands was loud and positive. Bobbi threw strikes—high lobs. She had sharp concentration and precision in her delivery and excellent follow-through. Kelso rooted her on and moved his infielders around, using Lacey all over the field. By the fourth inning, they were up 7-3. They made a few boots, but Kelso reassured and encouraged them, and the Tides won their first game ever.
He remained stoic as the girls jumped around, hugging, squealing with excitement. As the teams shook hands, the Legends coach leveled Kelso with a hard stare. She obviously did not appreciate Kelso, coaching at third, telling their thirdbaseman and shortstop they were “weak links and every hop was a bad hop” while he scratched his balls like a pervert.
He hung around, lurking in the background as Murphy’s warmed up, took infield. Murphy’s Pub, down the road at the north end of Manhattan Beach, outfitted their girls in splendidly tight Kelly green uniforms that emphasized the endowments of fetching yet athletic players at every position. Their hair was perfect and they wore make-up and adopted the haughty, blasé air of beauties bored with being admired and hit on constantly by panting hounds. They had a huge rooting section of what Kelso considered the entitled “IN” crowd. Their coach, around 40, not in uniform, but in trendy pleated shorts and polo shirt, appeared, with his prematurely coiffed white hair and Roman nose, to be an aging volleyball player who at one time modeled clothes. They obeyed him like fawning disciples. Kelso watched them demolish Players and left in the fifth inning after taking copious mental notes.
He was intrigued their by thirdbaseman, who pranced around so full of herself, cock of the walk, with just about the most fully developed heart-breaking ass he’d seen on a white girl in skin-tight elastic knee-length shorts.
Games started in the 6 team league at 6:30, 8, and 9:30. The Tides played at 8. Pedaling along the strand, Kelso slowed to shout at Marstrulavich to be at the park at 7:45 and arrived there at 7 to scout the teams playing. Callahan’s Tavern from up on Pacific Coast highway had several sound players, neat uniforms, acted like ball players and had a coach in a Boston Red Sox windbreaker and ball cap who conducted himself like an ex player even if he didn’t look like one. The team they were playing, Warner’s Plumbing, was, along with Murphy’s Pub, the team to beat. Their girls appeared grounded in the game, threw and caught and hit well, carried themselves with jaunty confidence and purpose. According to Jill, they’d won the league four seasons in a row.
Murphy’s Pub, who in the past seasons skunked the Tides, played at 9:30. The Tides were to play Legends, a bar in El Segundo, the 4th best team in the league. Kelso stood just off from the stands sizing up each girl, filing away mannerisms, tendencies, habits, attitudes. Both teams had boy friends and husbands in the stands. Kelso had already informed his girls to warn their husbands and boy friends they were only allowed to root for them and offer no advice whatsoever.
Warner’s executed and placed the ball solidly. Their coach, a tall man in windbreaker and ball cap, delivered a few signs like an ex player. His team was all business, no show. Looking them over, Kelso felt Monica was his only player who could break into their line-up, and maybe Lacey.
They methodically dismantled a solid Callahan’s, 9-3. Afterwards, both teams formed hand-shaking lines near the mound, a new ritual Kelso felt was a hypocritical desecration. His girls had already showed up and played catch on the sidelines. Legends was coached by a mannish woman with a duck-butt hairdo who, when she caught Kelso studying her, leveled him with a suspicious gaze. She hit infield like a man and demanded and received subservience from her players.
Kelso addressed his girls in the dugout. “We’re gonna drive their shortstop crazy,” he told them as they sat waiting to take infield. “We’re gonna hit every ball at her or the thirdbaseman. Even you, Lacey, if you can. We’re gonna torment the left side of their infield until they crack and dread having the ball hit to them. I’ll coach third. The only sign I’ll give tonight is the hit-and-run. What’s the hit-and-run? Well, whoever is on first base, or any other base, if you see me scratch my balls, you run AFTER the pitch is delivered. The batter, if you see me scratch my balls, swing at the pitch no matter where it is and try and chop it on the ground. If you can, chop it to the right side. That will be the only time you do not try and pull the ball. Now, what is the hit-and-run?”
“Scratch your balls,” Bobbi said, giggling.
“Okay. Now, Marstrulavich was supposed to hit you infield, but he’s late, so I’ll have to do it. And pay no attention to Marstrulavich except when he tells you how many outs there are. Do NOT look to him for signs. He’s not allowed to give signs. He’s too stupid to give signs. He’s a Polock. Polock’s are traditionally stupid, dim-witted people, the butt of jokes, and Marstrulavich is no exception.”
“My mother’s Polish,” Becki said, miffed.
“Female Polocks, in almost all cases, can be considered intelligent if they break from tradition and marry non Polocks. Your last name is Langford, so I trust your mother is smart, Becki.” Kelso’s attention turned to Marstrulavich, at last shambling up. “Well, well,” he went on. “Here comes Marstrulavich, a person of no-account whatsoever. Now girls, what’s the hit-and-run?”
“You scratch your balls,” was the unified chant.
After Marstrulavich hit a tidy infield, Legends came up and the first two hitters smacked balls right at Maria, who threw them out. The third hitter hit a long shot into left field that Monica ran down easily. The girls came off the field grinning. The Lacey led off chopping a ball over the pitcher’s head and beating it out. Kelso felt no need for a hit-and-run with her on first. Maria hit a high bouncer to third. By the time it came down, Lacey was near second, and when Maria beat the throw to first, Lacey took third. Then Monica drilled a bomb into left-center, scoring both girls, and the Tides’ women jumped up and yelled and screeched as Kelso waved them around. Jill, bat level on her shoulder, hot a hard grounder into left field, scoring Monica. Kelso scratched his balls. Jill took off. Becki slapped a grounder to shortstop, who became distracted with the runner headed to second and hesitated throwing to first. Kelso scratched his balls. Penny bounced a ball the secondbaseman, who had to go to first. Annie hit a weak pooper to second. Kelso clapped his hands as Claire came up to the plate.
“Claire the terror!” he yelled. She bounced a ball to the shortstop, who booted it. Four runs in. The shortstop was near tears as her coach sat scowling. Beth popped up, ending the inning.
Kelso and Marstrulavich sat side by side in the dugout. Their support in the stands was loud and positive. Bobbi threw strikes—high lobs. She had sharp concentration and precision in her delivery and excellent follow-through. Kelso rooted her on and moved his infielders around, using Lacey all over the field. By the fourth inning, they were up 7-3. They made a few boots, but Kelso reassured and encouraged them, and the Tides won their first game ever.
He remained stoic as the girls jumped around, hugging, squealing with excitement. As the teams shook hands, the Legends coach leveled Kelso with a hard stare. She obviously did not appreciate Kelso, coaching at third, telling their thirdbaseman and shortstop they were “weak links and every hop was a bad hop” while he scratched his balls like a pervert.
He hung around, lurking in the background as Murphy’s warmed up, took infield. Murphy’s Pub, down the road at the north end of Manhattan Beach, outfitted their girls in splendidly tight Kelly green uniforms that emphasized the endowments of fetching yet athletic players at every position. Their hair was perfect and they wore make-up and adopted the haughty, blasé air of beauties bored with being admired and hit on constantly by panting hounds. They had a huge rooting section of what Kelso considered the entitled “IN” crowd. Their coach, around 40, not in uniform, but in trendy pleated shorts and polo shirt, appeared, with his prematurely coiffed white hair and Roman nose, to be an aging volleyball player who at one time modeled clothes. They obeyed him like fawning disciples. Kelso watched them demolish Players and left in the fifth inning after taking copious mental notes.
He was intrigued their by thirdbaseman, who pranced around so full of herself, cock of the walk, with just about the most fully developed heart-breaking ass he’d seen on a white girl in skin-tight elastic knee-length shorts.
