“What did this kid say to you?” my father asked as the ball cracked into his mitt and he tossed it back in my direction, all in a single, sweeping motion.

“He called me a rag-arm,” I told him.

When I was nine, I earned a spot pitching in my town’s youth baseball league, so my father started practicing with me out in the backyard two or three evenings a week after dinner. I quickly developed a pretty good arm despite being rather small for my age. He stood against the stockade fence in his dirt-encrusted jeans and work boots tossing the ball back and forth with me until the sun crept down over the line of pine trees in the distance. It didn’t matter how hard he had worked that day—pouring concrete, digging trenches, laying sewer pipe—this was our time together, and save for the occasional thunderstorm, we let nothing get in the way of a good round of catch. He taught me how to grip the ball, laying my fingers over the seams in different positions for different pitches. He taught me how to maximize velocity by pitching with not just my arm, but by pushing off the rubber with the whole weight of my body. He taught me balance and control, and the ability to concentrate on nothing but my target. And sometimes he taught me how to deal with things much more important than the game itself.

“What else did he say?” he asked.

“Said he was gonna blast a home run off me every time he gets up to bat.” I tossed the ball back a little harder.

“Are you worried about that?” he asked. “You’ve given up home runs before. You strike people out, too. No different than any other pitcher.” He tossed the ball back again, harder still, the ball snapping loudly into the web of my glove. 

I pulled it out and turned the ball in my hand, examining the red-threaded seams. “I know. I just want him to shut up.”

“So, shut him up then.” He wiggled his open glove, signaling for the ball. We continued the exchange as he explained how to deal with my dilemma. 

“Spread it around school that you plan to bean him,” he said. “Get your friends talking, and make sure he hears it.” It was odd advice, but most of my dad’s advice was a bit off-color. “Then, when he gets up to bat, first-pitch strike, right down the middle.” 

“What if he swings?” I asked. 

“Oh, he’ll swing, but he’ll be stepping out to avoid that inside pitch he’s expecting. He won’t be able to touch your fastball swinging like that. That’s why you need to plant that seed.”

“Okay,” I said. So far, he was making sense. “Then what?”

“Sail your next pitch right up under his chin,” he said. “He’ll bail out and spend the rest of his at-bat so far away from the plate, he won’t be able to reach anything on the outside half of the zone.”

“But…what if I actually hit him? I don’t wanna—”

“Then he’ll never screw with you again.”

“But—”

“I’m kidding,” he said. “No, of course you don’t want to hit him, but I am serious about brushing him back. Listen, it’s part of the game. He’s trying to get inside your head. Show him you can play that game, too.”

The next night I was nervous taking the mound, but I followed my father’s advice as best I could. First pitch, strike, just like he said. My father watched intently but said nothing. My second pitch was nowhere near the kid’s chin, but it was far enough inside to throw him off his game. He stepped out with his front foot and fouled the ball off with an awkward swing, helmet twisting comically on his head and falling to the ground. I threw the third pitch in the dirt, and after he fouled off the fourth, I caught him looking at my fifth, a called third strike on the outside corner. My father, quiet for the entire at-bat, clapped loudly from the bleachers when the ump called the final pitch. 

“Atta boy, kid. That’s how to toss it in there,” he shouted. I saw his nod of approval as I walked off the mound, one that I looked forward to every time I ever tried to do him proud. I realize now that his nod probably had a lot more to do with me taking his advice than the fact that I recorded that strikeout. It’s not so much being on that mound and shutting that kid up that I think much about these days; it’s those evenings in the backyard, tossing the ball, chatting with my dad, taking in whatever it was he wanted to teach me as the ball sailed back and forth between us.

——————

James M. Maskell has taught high school English in Massachusetts for twenty years and recently received an M.A. in English from Bridgewater State University. He enjoys writing poetry, flash, and a bit of humor in the early mornings before heading off to class. His poetry has been featured in Loud Coffee Press, and he is a regular contributor to Friday Flash Fiction.