KELSO'S SWING, CHAPTER 14
Before the late game against Callahan’s, Kelso observed their black-bearded coach in Boston windbreaker and ball cap. He owned a fog-horn voice like Kelso’s. His team was working-class blue-collar, though he spied a prima-donna at shortstop. These women as a whole played with pride, were serious, seemed a group of long-time friends who liked to party after games—like the Tides.
Kelso had come early to watch two games, filing away tendencies of every girl on all four teams. He knew where they hit the ball, what their defensive weaknesses were. He noted attitudes and personalities and body postures, knowing these were insights into psyches. He memorized each coach’s sign patterns. He realized he would not be able to get away with his bizarre signs with the coaches of Warner’s and Callahan’s.
As usual, Warner’s and Murphy’s drubbed their opponents. Marstrulavich arrived just in time to hit infield, wobbling up on the creaky bike he’d found at a yard sale. Kelso had already informed the girls his hit-and-run would be verbal. He knew Callahan’s coach observed him strategize, move his fielders around, not leaving until the last out of the Tides’ last game. The man was obviously an over-achiever with little talent who’d played ball somewhere, loving the game so much and studying it to such an extent that he became a junkie who didn’t need to be coaxed into coaching, like Kelso, but volunteered to coach Little League, youth ball, American Legion, anywhere there was an opening to stay in the game. He probably had his own softball team in a men’s league.
Kelso could muster nothing short of admiration for such a creature and in no way fester animosity toward him, as he did other coaches in the league and almost anybody he ever competed against.
Kelso was in fact aware this character was sizing him up, too, probably trying to figure out where he, Kelso, played ball, and where he’d learned to mold the least talented girls in the league into what almost seemed a team that knew what they were doing and had a plan. This Callahan’s coach struck Kelso as a kind of un-malicious carnivore.
The game was air-tight. Kelso was pleased his girls stood up to the pressure and tension of a tight contest. He was more than pleased with Bobbi, who, when she fell behind in the count, fought back, made good pitches; did not choke. Also, he had taught her to keep pitches inside, knowing most hitters were anxious and automatically pulled the ball, and would pull these pitches foul, getting behind in the count.
“We’ve got an advantage,” he told his girls, clapping his hands. “We hit hard grounders, bouncers, line drives. They don’t. We manufacture runs. We’re not big dogs. We’re scrappers. Alley fighters.”
The Tides executed. Callahan’s executed. The Tides made the plays in the field. Callahan’s made the plays in the field. When Kelso stole the hit-and-run, he yelled, “Have a beer, big time Bobbi!” And Bobbi pitched out and Beth nailed the runner at first. The Callahan’s coach gave him a long look and didn’t try it again.
“Don’t you know what you’re up against, you poor slob?” Kelso muttered to himself. “I grew up with a professor of baseball who had chances to manage in the big leagues.” Kelso had absorbed all this as a small boy hitting pepper and hanging out in the clubhouse and listening and watching his father and his teammates.
“What you know about the game…” his father mused at the dinner table. “And you’re wasting it coaching a bunch of female aarvarks? Christ.”
“I’m trainin’ ‘em, dad,” Kelso said. “Like you trained me. Like your teammates trained me. They’ve got great potential to be a real vicious pack of scorpions.”
His father had laughed. “That’s my boy.”
Indeed, Kelso, as a 10 year old, taking his cue from the tough Depression era, WWII veterans of cussers and tobacco chewing varmints, unleashed himself on a youthful public in a manner so aggressive, and so talented, he was, for a time, hated, something that terrified his mother and prompted her to argue vociferously with Ray Kelso on “turning our child into a monster.” Already he was out of control in classrooms and brawling on playgrounds during recess.
His father laughed. “That’s my boy, May, he’s a real boy.”
Kelso watched his team, observed how, in the field, they tensed for each pitch, stayed low to the ground on their toes, reminded each other of how many outs, were poised to perform and were no longer slouching, distracted, defeated sad-sacks. Even when they messed up, they were starting to resemble ball players. And when they eked out a tough 4-3 victory, Maria throwing out the last hitter with runners at second and third, the girls whooped, jumped up and down before filing by the Callahan’s girls, who shook their hands and sized them up as new and threatening, while their coach and Kelso stared at each other from opposite sides of the diamond.
Kelso had come early to watch two games, filing away tendencies of every girl on all four teams. He knew where they hit the ball, what their defensive weaknesses were. He noted attitudes and personalities and body postures, knowing these were insights into psyches. He memorized each coach’s sign patterns. He realized he would not be able to get away with his bizarre signs with the coaches of Warner’s and Callahan’s.
As usual, Warner’s and Murphy’s drubbed their opponents. Marstrulavich arrived just in time to hit infield, wobbling up on the creaky bike he’d found at a yard sale. Kelso had already informed the girls his hit-and-run would be verbal. He knew Callahan’s coach observed him strategize, move his fielders around, not leaving until the last out of the Tides’ last game. The man was obviously an over-achiever with little talent who’d played ball somewhere, loving the game so much and studying it to such an extent that he became a junkie who didn’t need to be coaxed into coaching, like Kelso, but volunteered to coach Little League, youth ball, American Legion, anywhere there was an opening to stay in the game. He probably had his own softball team in a men’s league.
Kelso could muster nothing short of admiration for such a creature and in no way fester animosity toward him, as he did other coaches in the league and almost anybody he ever competed against.
Kelso was in fact aware this character was sizing him up, too, probably trying to figure out where he, Kelso, played ball, and where he’d learned to mold the least talented girls in the league into what almost seemed a team that knew what they were doing and had a plan. This Callahan’s coach struck Kelso as a kind of un-malicious carnivore.
The game was air-tight. Kelso was pleased his girls stood up to the pressure and tension of a tight contest. He was more than pleased with Bobbi, who, when she fell behind in the count, fought back, made good pitches; did not choke. Also, he had taught her to keep pitches inside, knowing most hitters were anxious and automatically pulled the ball, and would pull these pitches foul, getting behind in the count.
“We’ve got an advantage,” he told his girls, clapping his hands. “We hit hard grounders, bouncers, line drives. They don’t. We manufacture runs. We’re not big dogs. We’re scrappers. Alley fighters.”
The Tides executed. Callahan’s executed. The Tides made the plays in the field. Callahan’s made the plays in the field. When Kelso stole the hit-and-run, he yelled, “Have a beer, big time Bobbi!” And Bobbi pitched out and Beth nailed the runner at first. The Callahan’s coach gave him a long look and didn’t try it again.
“Don’t you know what you’re up against, you poor slob?” Kelso muttered to himself. “I grew up with a professor of baseball who had chances to manage in the big leagues.” Kelso had absorbed all this as a small boy hitting pepper and hanging out in the clubhouse and listening and watching his father and his teammates.
“What you know about the game…” his father mused at the dinner table. “And you’re wasting it coaching a bunch of female aarvarks? Christ.”
“I’m trainin’ ‘em, dad,” Kelso said. “Like you trained me. Like your teammates trained me. They’ve got great potential to be a real vicious pack of scorpions.”
His father had laughed. “That’s my boy.”
Indeed, Kelso, as a 10 year old, taking his cue from the tough Depression era, WWII veterans of cussers and tobacco chewing varmints, unleashed himself on a youthful public in a manner so aggressive, and so talented, he was, for a time, hated, something that terrified his mother and prompted her to argue vociferously with Ray Kelso on “turning our child into a monster.” Already he was out of control in classrooms and brawling on playgrounds during recess.
His father laughed. “That’s my boy, May, he’s a real boy.”
Kelso watched his team, observed how, in the field, they tensed for each pitch, stayed low to the ground on their toes, reminded each other of how many outs, were poised to perform and were no longer slouching, distracted, defeated sad-sacks. Even when they messed up, they were starting to resemble ball players. And when they eked out a tough 4-3 victory, Maria throwing out the last hitter with runners at second and third, the girls whooped, jumped up and down before filing by the Callahan’s girls, who shook their hands and sized them up as new and threatening, while their coach and Kelso stared at each other from opposite sides of the diamond.
