KELSO'S SWING, CHAPTER 1
BY DELL FRANKLIN
In the late 1970’s, Kelso, tending bar in Manhattan Beach in Southern California at the Sunset Bar & Grill, a dark, cozy establishment a stones throw from the pier, observed Jill Morton approach him in her typical willful manner that caused most men to wilt. Tan, willowy, 30, Jill played volleyball on the beach with a coterie of jocks affiliated with her husband, Jay, who’d played high school football and was now an attorney. They were all well-meaning, educated people with good jobs and good looks and would eventually outgrow party life on the beach and hatch children and tend to the business of adulthood and exemplary citizenship, a situation Kelso had avoided all his 35 years.
Jill, a member of the women’s slo-pitch softball team from the Tampico Tides bar across the street, stood before Kelso and did not hesitate in asking him if he’d coach their team. Kelso, who sported a beard, long wild sun-blasted hair, a thick boxer’s neck and massive forearms, folded his arms across his chest and ignored the sparse crowd of mostly gamblers and womanless die-hard night owls along the bar, and glanced past her at the Tide players, and the husbands and boyfriends who’d tried to coach them with disastrous results. Then he turned back to Jill, knowing he needed a drink. Jill, pointy-featured face stern, knew full well that only a miracle worker could turn their team around after two straight 0-10 seasons of performing so feebly they were considered a pitiful laughingstock of local bar leagues.
She studied the mocking look on his face, sighed, and said, “It’s not that we’re THAT bad,” she insisted. “We have potential, it’s just that we’re…”
“You’re the worst pack of rabble in the history of all competition at any sport at any level, including peewee leagues, is what I heard.”
Jill took a deep breath. “Look, we’ve got some good players.”
“What do you consider good players? Can they catch the ball? I heard you can’t. Can they hit the ball out of the infield? I heard you can’t. Do you know how many outs there are in an inning?”
“Of course we know how many outs are in an inning!” Jill snapped, mouth tightening, a woman who was used to running the ship at work and at home. “We’re not stupid.”
Kelso observed the crew along the bar listening in, shrouded in clouds of smoke, amused, then turned back to Jill. “I’ve known geniuses who were stupid on the ball field,” he said loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation and the baseball game on the two TVs. “So don’t tell me you’re not stupid when you get skunked every game.” He stared past her at the Tides players, some of whom shrunk up visibly while their men looked away. “Now tell me most of your scores. How bad was it?”
“Well, we only lost a couple games by three runs.”
“And I suppose those were against the next worst team.”
Jill shrugged, nodded. In her uniform jersey and shorts, she did not fail to notice Kelso taking in her world-class legs. He had waited on her and Jay and their crowd for years, back when he worked the Tides, before they changed management and pissed him off.
“I heard,” Kelso said. “You lost two games 20-0.”
“That was against Warner’s Plumbing. They’ve got really good players who played in high school and college. Most of our girls never played high school. Warner’s has a really good coach, too. I guess he played professional baseball.”
“I don’t see why an ex pro’d have anything to do with slo-pitch. It’s a desecration of the real game.” He scratched his bearded chin with thumb and forefinger while his arms remained across his chest. Kelso had been asked to play on various softball teams, but refused. He played in basketball leagues on nights off, and also on certain afternoons at the Elm Street Park outdoor courts that were situated in a wind protected bowl surrounded by six finely maintained tennis courts, a softball diamond where the girls played, and a men’s softball diamond on the other side of the tennis courts. “I don’t know why anybody’d want to coach your team. I’ve seen ‘em in the Tides. They don’t look like ball players, even for women. Some of ‘em are fat. A fatty can’t play ball. Some of those girls act like they’re out there to be with the girls so they have an excuse to party. I’d never allow people like that on a team I coached.” He delivered her a long, searching, withering look. “You the leader of that pack of losers skulkin; around over there, with that sorry pack of male hides?”
“I guess I am. That’s why I’m here, facing you, when everybody knows you’re a hard case and a grouch.”
“It takes a hard case to coach, kid. I’m warning you, if I’m stupid enough to take on this gig, I will not tolerate desecration of the national pastime, whether it’s Podunk slo-pitch or hardball. I’m an autocrat, Jill, a dictator.”
“That’s what we want. That’s what we need. We walked all over our other coaches.”
“Who’s coaching you now?”
“Mark, Beth’s husband.”
“Beth? That the fat one? The tit monster?”
“She’s our catcher…”
“The woman’s a tortoise, can’t run the bases with those bombers joggling around. And that Mark—wears a Ram cap with wings flaming out if it. Know how stupid that looks? The guy’s a clown and you women are a reflection of his buffoonery. I won’t coach a bunch of fat, frivolous clowns desecrating a game I was raised in by a big leaguer. Is that clear?”
Jill planted her hands on her hips and thrust her chin at Kelso in a challenging pose. “Yes! Look, Rick, we’re serious. We want to win. We’re desperate. And we don’t give up!”
“And what about that midget over there? The one with the perm? She’s all made up, like she’s going to a dance. How can anybody play ball looking like a goddam prom queen?”
“That’s Annie. She plays right field. She’s so sweet, so much fun, and she’s a hottie, Rick, you’d like her, she comes all the way from Palisades to play with us.”
“I am not, if I take on this team, gonna LIKE any of you, other than cracking the whip and turning you into some semblance of ball players that don’t embarrass me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear.”
Kelso unfolded his arms and poured out two shooters of warm Russian vodka and pushed one over to Jill. They raised their glasses and bolted the shots, Jill trying not to wince with displeasure. Kelso fixed her with another withering stare.
“Well,” he conceded. “At least the leader of this worthless pack of losers can throw ‘em down.
In the late 1970’s, Kelso, tending bar in Manhattan Beach in Southern California at the Sunset Bar & Grill, a dark, cozy establishment a stones throw from the pier, observed Jill Morton approach him in her typical willful manner that caused most men to wilt. Tan, willowy, 30, Jill played volleyball on the beach with a coterie of jocks affiliated with her husband, Jay, who’d played high school football and was now an attorney. They were all well-meaning, educated people with good jobs and good looks and would eventually outgrow party life on the beach and hatch children and tend to the business of adulthood and exemplary citizenship, a situation Kelso had avoided all his 35 years.
Jill, a member of the women’s slo-pitch softball team from the Tampico Tides bar across the street, stood before Kelso and did not hesitate in asking him if he’d coach their team. Kelso, who sported a beard, long wild sun-blasted hair, a thick boxer’s neck and massive forearms, folded his arms across his chest and ignored the sparse crowd of mostly gamblers and womanless die-hard night owls along the bar, and glanced past her at the Tide players, and the husbands and boyfriends who’d tried to coach them with disastrous results. Then he turned back to Jill, knowing he needed a drink. Jill, pointy-featured face stern, knew full well that only a miracle worker could turn their team around after two straight 0-10 seasons of performing so feebly they were considered a pitiful laughingstock of local bar leagues.
She studied the mocking look on his face, sighed, and said, “It’s not that we’re THAT bad,” she insisted. “We have potential, it’s just that we’re…”
“You’re the worst pack of rabble in the history of all competition at any sport at any level, including peewee leagues, is what I heard.”
Jill took a deep breath. “Look, we’ve got some good players.”
“What do you consider good players? Can they catch the ball? I heard you can’t. Can they hit the ball out of the infield? I heard you can’t. Do you know how many outs there are in an inning?”
“Of course we know how many outs are in an inning!” Jill snapped, mouth tightening, a woman who was used to running the ship at work and at home. “We’re not stupid.”
Kelso observed the crew along the bar listening in, shrouded in clouds of smoke, amused, then turned back to Jill. “I’ve known geniuses who were stupid on the ball field,” he said loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation and the baseball game on the two TVs. “So don’t tell me you’re not stupid when you get skunked every game.” He stared past her at the Tides players, some of whom shrunk up visibly while their men looked away. “Now tell me most of your scores. How bad was it?”
“Well, we only lost a couple games by three runs.”
“And I suppose those were against the next worst team.”
Jill shrugged, nodded. In her uniform jersey and shorts, she did not fail to notice Kelso taking in her world-class legs. He had waited on her and Jay and their crowd for years, back when he worked the Tides, before they changed management and pissed him off.
“I heard,” Kelso said. “You lost two games 20-0.”
“That was against Warner’s Plumbing. They’ve got really good players who played in high school and college. Most of our girls never played high school. Warner’s has a really good coach, too. I guess he played professional baseball.”
“I don’t see why an ex pro’d have anything to do with slo-pitch. It’s a desecration of the real game.” He scratched his bearded chin with thumb and forefinger while his arms remained across his chest. Kelso had been asked to play on various softball teams, but refused. He played in basketball leagues on nights off, and also on certain afternoons at the Elm Street Park outdoor courts that were situated in a wind protected bowl surrounded by six finely maintained tennis courts, a softball diamond where the girls played, and a men’s softball diamond on the other side of the tennis courts. “I don’t know why anybody’d want to coach your team. I’ve seen ‘em in the Tides. They don’t look like ball players, even for women. Some of ‘em are fat. A fatty can’t play ball. Some of those girls act like they’re out there to be with the girls so they have an excuse to party. I’d never allow people like that on a team I coached.” He delivered her a long, searching, withering look. “You the leader of that pack of losers skulkin; around over there, with that sorry pack of male hides?”
“I guess I am. That’s why I’m here, facing you, when everybody knows you’re a hard case and a grouch.”
“It takes a hard case to coach, kid. I’m warning you, if I’m stupid enough to take on this gig, I will not tolerate desecration of the national pastime, whether it’s Podunk slo-pitch or hardball. I’m an autocrat, Jill, a dictator.”
“That’s what we want. That’s what we need. We walked all over our other coaches.”
“Who’s coaching you now?”
“Mark, Beth’s husband.”
“Beth? That the fat one? The tit monster?”
“She’s our catcher…”
“The woman’s a tortoise, can’t run the bases with those bombers joggling around. And that Mark—wears a Ram cap with wings flaming out if it. Know how stupid that looks? The guy’s a clown and you women are a reflection of his buffoonery. I won’t coach a bunch of fat, frivolous clowns desecrating a game I was raised in by a big leaguer. Is that clear?”
Jill planted her hands on her hips and thrust her chin at Kelso in a challenging pose. “Yes! Look, Rick, we’re serious. We want to win. We’re desperate. And we don’t give up!”
“And what about that midget over there? The one with the perm? She’s all made up, like she’s going to a dance. How can anybody play ball looking like a goddam prom queen?”
“That’s Annie. She plays right field. She’s so sweet, so much fun, and she’s a hottie, Rick, you’d like her, she comes all the way from Palisades to play with us.”
“I am not, if I take on this team, gonna LIKE any of you, other than cracking the whip and turning you into some semblance of ball players that don’t embarrass me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear.”
Kelso unfolded his arms and poured out two shooters of warm Russian vodka and pushed one over to Jill. They raised their glasses and bolted the shots, Jill trying not to wince with displeasure. Kelso fixed her with another withering stare.
“Well,” he conceded. “At least the leader of this worthless pack of losers can throw ‘em down.
