"kelso's swing" chapter 44
The Tides had the late game against Murphy's Pub, a team Kelso now referred to, sans Kaycee, as de-fanged, de-clawed, pig-shit Irish vampires. He'd refreshed himself after coming home from work with an hour of body surfing in the ocean, until his hands turned blue and his mind unclogged the tumult of his new life as a responsible adult working more than he had ever intended to. Before infield, he assembled the girls in the dugout while Marstrulavich smoked standing beside him.
“When I was a little kid,” he told them. “My Dad was still playing pro ball in the old Pacific Coast League, before the Dodgers and Angels came out west. Baseball-wise, he was an old man, with many injuries, some accumulated playing the game, some during the war. But he hung on, and he'd take me to the ball park, inside the clubhouse, and it was here he indoctrinated me to the game of baseball. He always came early to the clubhouse, and a few other old timers came early too, and they were always the last to leave the park after the games, and all they talked about was baseball. They were all tough guys who'd been through the Great Depression and the war, and most of 'em played with nagging injuries that would never go away, injuries in some cases that'd land an ordinary man in the hospital. They played because the game was their religion, and they loved it more than anything in their lives. They wanted to be there, with their teammates, sharing the life, and almost every one of them, and especially my father, would have played for nothing, like you are. Why? Because they were in love with the game. One of those players, he told me that baseball, the game itself, was like the most beautiful woman in the world, and you were madly in love with her, but she would never love you back. What that means, I think, is that the game is full of rejection and failure and deep, deep disappointment, and, worst of all, heartbreak...but, from time to time, like a beautiful woman, an irresistible woman, she teases you with a little hope, with a winning hit or game saving catch, a big play, and maybe, if you're lucky, a championship. But always the game quits loving you, it humbles and beats you down, and your only choice is to keep on loving the game like she's the most beautiful woman in the world you never stop chasing, who'll never love you back.” He gazed slowly at each girl. And they all stared back, quiet and reverent. “So love the goddam game like it's Paul Newman. He ain't nevah gonna love you broads back, but that ain't gonna keep yah from dreamin' and tryin'.”
Marstruilavich nodded at him. Then Jill asked: “Who's the player who said baseball's like the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“My old man. They'd tape him up like a mummy so he could play. He didn't care how much pain he was in, as long as he could be on the field with his teammates, as long as he could be there for them. He never wanted to miss a single inning. His teammates respected him, and they sought his respect. It doesn't get any better than that, girls, and if you can find that, you're set for the long haul, and you'll each find the best in yourselves as players and people.”
Throughout the game, Kelso, drained from lack of sleep and too much boozing, paced, yelled himself hoarse, exhorting his players on, moving his fielders around, issuing verbal instructions before the girls went up to the plate. They dismantled Murphy”s 11-5. They turned a doubleplay. The highlight of the game was Kaycee, with a vengeance, bowling shortstop Cindy over on a Murphy's attempted doubleplay and then offering her a hand as she stood over her.
Cindy jawed at her, refused her hand. Kaycee sprinted off the field to the dugout where her teammates met her at the dugout, slapping her on the butt. Otherwise, the girls kept their celebrating moderate after the game ended, and especially so when Murphy's refused to shake their hands.
Marstrulavich quipped, “Christ, they really are good now.”
“We're getting there.”
“I think we can beat Warner's. They're ready.”
“We'll see.” He withdrew his cigar stub and lit it. “Everything's gonna hafta go right to beat that crew.”
He blew out smoke. “We're hungrier. They're like a pack of wild dogs in the bush fighting over a carcass.”
“When I was a little kid,” he told them. “My Dad was still playing pro ball in the old Pacific Coast League, before the Dodgers and Angels came out west. Baseball-wise, he was an old man, with many injuries, some accumulated playing the game, some during the war. But he hung on, and he'd take me to the ball park, inside the clubhouse, and it was here he indoctrinated me to the game of baseball. He always came early to the clubhouse, and a few other old timers came early too, and they were always the last to leave the park after the games, and all they talked about was baseball. They were all tough guys who'd been through the Great Depression and the war, and most of 'em played with nagging injuries that would never go away, injuries in some cases that'd land an ordinary man in the hospital. They played because the game was their religion, and they loved it more than anything in their lives. They wanted to be there, with their teammates, sharing the life, and almost every one of them, and especially my father, would have played for nothing, like you are. Why? Because they were in love with the game. One of those players, he told me that baseball, the game itself, was like the most beautiful woman in the world, and you were madly in love with her, but she would never love you back. What that means, I think, is that the game is full of rejection and failure and deep, deep disappointment, and, worst of all, heartbreak...but, from time to time, like a beautiful woman, an irresistible woman, she teases you with a little hope, with a winning hit or game saving catch, a big play, and maybe, if you're lucky, a championship. But always the game quits loving you, it humbles and beats you down, and your only choice is to keep on loving the game like she's the most beautiful woman in the world you never stop chasing, who'll never love you back.” He gazed slowly at each girl. And they all stared back, quiet and reverent. “So love the goddam game like it's Paul Newman. He ain't nevah gonna love you broads back, but that ain't gonna keep yah from dreamin' and tryin'.”
Marstruilavich nodded at him. Then Jill asked: “Who's the player who said baseball's like the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“My old man. They'd tape him up like a mummy so he could play. He didn't care how much pain he was in, as long as he could be on the field with his teammates, as long as he could be there for them. He never wanted to miss a single inning. His teammates respected him, and they sought his respect. It doesn't get any better than that, girls, and if you can find that, you're set for the long haul, and you'll each find the best in yourselves as players and people.”
Throughout the game, Kelso, drained from lack of sleep and too much boozing, paced, yelled himself hoarse, exhorting his players on, moving his fielders around, issuing verbal instructions before the girls went up to the plate. They dismantled Murphy”s 11-5. They turned a doubleplay. The highlight of the game was Kaycee, with a vengeance, bowling shortstop Cindy over on a Murphy's attempted doubleplay and then offering her a hand as she stood over her.
Cindy jawed at her, refused her hand. Kaycee sprinted off the field to the dugout where her teammates met her at the dugout, slapping her on the butt. Otherwise, the girls kept their celebrating moderate after the game ended, and especially so when Murphy's refused to shake their hands.
Marstrulavich quipped, “Christ, they really are good now.”
“We're getting there.”
“I think we can beat Warner's. They're ready.”
“We'll see.” He withdrew his cigar stub and lit it. “Everything's gonna hafta go right to beat that crew.”
He blew out smoke. “We're hungrier. They're like a pack of wild dogs in the bush fighting over a carcass.”
