James Etheridge

It was shaping up to be a good year. We were tied for first place about halfway through the season. All that changed the following Saturday morning. Early in the game, Beera came to the plate and hit a line drive to center. The center fielder caught the ball on the first bounce and threw it to the second baseman. It was a routine single. Beera rounded first and went down in a heap, grabbing his right ankle. He didn’t get up. We all ran out to him and his wife Debba came down from the bleachers. “I think I broke my ankle when I hit the bag,” he said, grimacing in pain. “It might be the Achilles tendon,” said the first baseman. “I heard it pop when he rounded the base.” “Can you stand up?” asked Debba. “I don’t think so,” he said, still clutching his ankle. He rolled over, tried to push up and then fell back on the dirt. “No way,” he groaned.” “Alright,” she said. “Let’s get you up, we’re going to the emergency room.”
“Just give me a second.”
“Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”
He lay on the infield for a minute and then said, “Okay, let’s do it.” He rolled over onto his left side and pushed up. Beera was a big guy, not overweight, just massive. It took the first baseman, the umpire, Greggo and me to get him up. He stood on his left foot, put his arm around Greggo on his left side and me on his right. We hobbled across right field toward the gate to the parking lot. About halfway there Beera said, “Hold on, hold on. I need a rest. It’s hurting pretty bad.” We stopped and he put his head back for a minute. “Are y’all okay?” he asked. “We’re fine, we’ve got you,” said Greggo. “Just let us know when you’re ready.” “Damn, it hurts,” groaned Beera. After another minute or so he said, “Okay, let’s go. I’m holding up the game.” We hobbled to the gate and the right fielder opened it for us. When we got to the parking lot I said, “Okay, buddy, just take it slow on this gravel.”
“Bet y’all wish I’d have laid off the steak and taters now, huh?”
“Nah, you’re light as a feather, ain’t he Greggo?”
“Man, I’ve carried ink boxes heavier than you,” said Greggo, who worked in printing. When we got to Beera’s truck, Debba opened the passenger door and asked, “Do you need a minute?”
“Nah, I’m okay. Remember, there’s no crying in baseball.” We all laughed. At least he still had his sense of humor. He turned his back to the seat, pushed himself up on it and swung his left leg into the cab. Greggo and I helped him swing his right leg in. Beera laid his head on the headrest, let out a loud sigh and said, “Thanks, guys.” “No sweat, old buddy,” said Greggo. “Are you gonna be alright?” I asked Debba. “Do you need us to follow y’all?”
“No, thanks, they’ll have a wheelchair ready when we get there.”
“Oh, man,” groaned Beera. “A wheelchair.” “We’re good,” said Debba. “Go on, y’all have a game to play.”
“Alright, said Greggo. Keep us posted.” “I’ll call y’all later,” said Beera. “Give ‘em hell, guys.” I shut the door and Greggo and I walked back to the dugout in silence. We didn’t win the game and dropped out of the tie for first place.

About seven o’clock that night the phone rang. “Hey, man,” said the voice on the other end. It was Beera. “Hey, bubba,” I said. “So what’s the news?”
“It’s the Achilles. I tore it.”
“Damn. It was a routine single. You didn’t even hit the bag hard.”
“Yeah, I told the doctor that. He said you could tear it just running or even walking.”
“Geez. So what’s the prognosis going forward?”
“Well, they’ve got me in a boot. I’m gonna have to wear it for about six or eight weeks. They’ve got surgery scheduled for next week. Right now I’ve got to stay off of it as much as possible. I’ll be on crutches for a couple of weeks after the surgery. I’ll start PT in about a month.”
“What about work?”
“Well, I’ll be able to work from home, but I won’t be able to drive until the boot comes off.”
“So Debba’ll have to drive to job sites?”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”
“Not that it’s important right now, but did you ask the doctor about being able to play ball again?”
“Oh, yeah, he said he’s sure I’ll make a full recovery. But this season’s shot.”
“We lost today, dropped out of first.”
“Yeah, I heard. Greggo called a little while ago. No worries, there’s still a lot of ball left in the season.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Are y’all okay?”
“Oh yeah, we’re fine.”
“Well, call if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
“No, I’m serious, man. Anything.”
“Alright. I ‘preciate it.”
“Talk to you soon. Take it easy.”
“See ya.”
“See ya.”

That night I lay in bed and thought long and hard about Beera. We were all in our late thirties and none of us were getting any younger. The possibility of injury was part of any sport, but you went out, played hard and never thought about it. But what happened to Beera was pretty scary. Maybe this was a sign. This was only Saturday morning rec league ball, after all. It wasn’t like it was our livelihood. I tossed, turned and eventually fell into a fitful sleep. But every time I woke up, I went right back to the same thought. Maybe it was time to hang ‘em up.

The following Friday afternoon I came home from work, cut the grass, ran the trimmer, blew the leaves and grass off the driveway, the front walk and porch. I checked the chemistry in the pool and then went inside, showered, put on a pair of cargo shorts, a t-shirt and slipped on my Dockers. I polished my cleats, oiled my glove and ironed my uniform. After my cleats dried I put them and my bat in my bat bag, hung my uniform next to the stool in my closet, then took my bat bag to the garage and put it on the back seat of my yellow ’69 VW convertible. I went back into the kitchen, poured myself a vodka tonic, dropped in a lime slice, went out to the front porch and sat down in one of the big wooden Adirondack chairs. I was sipping on the drink when Mary Jane pulled into the driveway from work. She parked the Lincoln in the garage, went into the house, changed clothes, made herself a vodka tonic, came out to the porch and sat down in the Adirondack chair opposite me. “Hey, honey,” I said. “Mmph,” she replied, taking a sip of her drink.
“How was Atlanta traffic?”
She gave me an eat shit and die look.
“Well, it is Friday. What time did you leave?”
“Five.”
I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty. “Geez,” I said.
“Yeah. I swear people turn into bloody idiots when they get behind the wheel of a car.”
Mary Jane was an Englishwoman and patience was not one of her virtues. “Was there a wreck?” I asked. “No,” she replied, “but will you please tell me what is so interesting about three Mexicans changing a flat tire?” I started to laugh. “It’s not funny, Tommy, I’m serious,” she said. Three Mexicans changing a tire in the emergency lane and everyone has to slow down and gawk. It backed traffic up for two miles.”
“I don’t know, honey. Maybe it’s like a train wreck. People just can’t look away.”
“Well, I’m thinking about calling the bloody DOT Monday morning.”
“Go ahead, but I don’t think you’ll get much satisfaction.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our drinks. “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I had to vent.”
“That’s okay. I understand.”
“The yard looks nice.”
“Thank you.”
“What time is your game tomorrow?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“I think Sis and I are going sailing in the morning.” Sailing was what they called hitting the yard sales. “Okay,” I said.

We sat in silence a few more minutes. “I’ve got something I need to talk to you about,” I finally spoke up and said. “Oh, God,” she groaned. “What did I do now?” “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “It’s about ball.” I paused for a second, then said, “I’m thinking about hanging ‘em up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Quitting.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of what happened to Beera.”
“Tommy, you can’t worry about that. What happened was an accident, a freak injury.”
“I know, but it’s damn serious.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“No, I know he’ll say the same thing you said and try to talk me out of it.”
She laughed and said, “Listen, you’re having a good year and the team’s having a good year. You enjoy playing, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m starting to wonder about it, though. The more I think about it, the more I think it’s time to hang ‘em up.”
“That’s up to you, Tommy. Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.”
“Thank you dear. You know, I’ve been playing ball since I was twenty-five. I’m really starting to feel a little guilty about it.”
“About what?”
“Being gone every Saturday morning after we’ve both been working all week. Playing ball takes up a lot of time, time away from you and away from home.”
“I’m a big girl, Tommy. I’m fine on my own for a few hours over the weekend.”
She looked at me for a second, then said, “You’re scared, aren’t you?”  I thought for a second and said, “I don’t really know if I’d call it scared. I’ve tried my best to put it out of my mind, but every time I run to first or round any base now there’s a twinge of apprehension. I’m thirty-eight years old with a family, a job and responsibility. It’s not like I’m making a living from the Saturday morning men’s league.”  “How many games are left?” she asked.
“Three.”
“Why don’t you finish the season and reassess it afterwards?”
“I guess so. That’s better than quitting.”
“Anything’s better than quitting. Beera wouldn’t want you to quit.”
“Of course, you’re right. Thank you, honey.”
I got up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked. “Why certainly,” she said, smiling. I went into the kitchen and poured two more vodka tonics. I felt better. After the second vodka tonic I would feel a whole lot better.

Two weeks later Mary Jane’s parents came for the summer from the old country. I was very fond of them, her father in particular. He and I were close, even with literally an ocean of distance between us. We talked every couple of weeks on the phone and whenever he and Mum came to visit Dad and I would play golf, fish, play cards, hang out in the pool drinking beer or sit up well into the night sharing whisky and talking. I loved his stories and could sit for hours listening to him tell them. We had a great friendship. If either of us pissed the other one off, we could tell each other about it, get things sorted out and go on. I was never hesitant to ask him advice on anything and always listened to what he had to say.

We had lost two games in a row and dropped to third place. The first Saturday they were here was the last game of the season and the stakes were cut and dried. If we lost, they would wind up in first and we would finish tied for third. If we won, they would finish tied for first and then face a one-game playoff for first place. We would finish in third alone. It was a beautiful late May morning, warm but not hot, partly cloudy, low humidity and a perfect day to play ball. I arrived at the field at nine for a ten-o’clock first pitch. I had always liked to arrive at the park early to get stretched out, warm up my arm playing catch, take a few swings off the batting tee, shag balls in the outfield and enjoy the banter and fellowship with my teammates. As I was tossing the ball with Snoid, our right fielder, something rapped me hard on the right ankle. I turned around and there was Beera, on crutches and grinning. Debba was with him. I laughed out loud, dropped my glove and hugged his neck. Snoid walked over and gave him a high-five. “Bubba!” I yelled. “You here to give us motivation?”
“Yeah. Motivationally speaking, you didn’t think I’d miss y’all playing for stand-alone third, did you?”
“Well, if you think hitting me with that damn stick is motivational, you’re right up there with Matt Foley. Do you live in a van down by the river?”
“Mostly he’s been living in a recliner in front of the TV,” said Debba. “We figured today would be a good day to get out of the house.” “Are y’all gonna sit with us in the dugout?” I asked. “No,” said Beera. “Up and down the steps might be a little tricky. I’m cripple, you know? We’ll be on the first row of the bleachers.” “Great to see y’all,” I said. “Catch up with you later.” Beera shook my hand and wished me good luck. Debba gave me a hug. “Hit ‘em where they ain’t,” she said. I went back playing catch with Snoid while Beera and Debba shook hands and shared hugs and laughter with our teammates.

We were the home team and in the first inning the leadoff batter hit a ball into the dirt in front of the plate. I sprang out of my crouch, scooped up the ball, pounded it into my glove once, threw a perfect strike to Big Jim at first and got the runner by three steps. In the third inning they had a runner on third with one out. The batter hit a shallow fly into left field. Greggo charged the ball and caught it on the run. The runner on third decided to tag up, which was a mistake. I straddled the plate and Greggo, with a running start, threw a rocket to me that I caught on the fly. I lowered my glove in front of the plate and the runner slid into the tag for an easy out. The game went back and forth with each team going up by one run. It was getting to be crunch time.

By the top of the seventh we were up by one run. They had runners on second and third with two out. Their first baseman hit a line drive over the shortstop’s head and into left-center. The runner on third scored easily. Greggo got to the ball just as the third base coach was waving the runner from second home. This was it. Both benches and bleachers were screaming. I straddled the plate, checked the runner quickly and knew he wasn’t going to slide when he got to home. Greggo let loose a frozen rope that I caught on one hop. I turned to the runner, lowered my shoulder and he plowed into me. We both went down in a heap. I rolled over onto my right side and held my glove aloft to show I had held onto the ball. The umpire took two steps toward my outstretched arm, pumped his right fist toward the dirt and bellowed, “He’s outta there!” I jumped up, helped the runner up, gave him a slap on the shoulder and tossed the ball out to the pitching rubber as my teammates went wild. Greggo came running in from the outfield and I high-fived him, put my arm around his neck and said, “Helluva a throw, buddy!” He patted my chest and said, “Helluva catch, helluva tag!” Then he yelled to the team, “Alright guys, we need one!”

I was due up third in the order. Snoid, our right fielder, hit a hard grounder that ate up their second baseman. He was on first with no outs. Hammer, our shortstop, worked the pitcher to a full count before hitting a solid single between first and second. In the on-deck circle I bent over, rubbed dirt on my batting gloves and walked to the plate. There was nobody out and the winning run was on second. I had been up three times, had three hits and scored two runs. A double would win the game and end the season. A single would load the bases. The thought of a grounder and the resulting double or triple play flashed through my mind as I walked to the plate. I paused for a second and managed to put that thought out of my mind. My teammates were yelling encouragement from the dugout as were our bleachers. Greggo, coaching third base, clapped his hands at me and yelled, “This is what we play for, Tommy! You can do it!” I took a deep, cleansing breath and stood in. The first pitch hit the dirt in front of the plate. “Stee-rike!” yelled the umpire. Boos rained in from the bleachers and protests howled from our dugout. “Come on, Blue!” I heard Beera bellow. “I’ve seen better eyes on a potato!” The umpire raised his mask and looked into the bleachers at him. I stepped out of the box and glared at the umpire. He shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the pitcher with his right hand. I shook my head and stood back in. The next pitch came in waist high and over the plate. I stayed back, stepped into the pitch and as soon as I hit it I knew it was gone. I started trotting down the first base line and watched the ball sail toward the left-field fence and crash into the scoreboard. The only problem was that the scoreboard was in foul territory. “Foul ball!” yelled the base umpire. Strike two.  I walked back to the plate, picked up my bat and said, “Just a long, noisy strike.” “Yep,” said the catcher. “Now you’re down to your last one.” “Motivationally speaking?” I said.
“Whatever.”
I took another deep breath and stood in. The pitch was outside and in the dirt. The catcher held the ball in position for a few seconds as I looked back at the umpire. He just grinned and shook his head. One ball and two strikes. By now the bleachers and the dugout were screaming and stomping. The sound seemed to fade away as I took another breath, set my stance and rotated my shoulders. The pitcher looked in at the catcher, wound up and released the ball just above his right knee. It came in waist-high on the outside corner of the plate and I stepped into it, unwound my shoulders, released my wrists and ripped a line drive into left-center field. Big Jim, coaching first base was jumping up and down, waving his right arm and yelling, “Go! Go! Go!” All the fear and apprehension was gone now as I rounded first base and headed for second. I looked toward third and saw Greggo waving Hammer home. I slid into second just as Hammer crossed the plate. Our dugout and grandstands went nuts. I got up, dusted myself off, stood on second base for a few seconds, looked up, pointed at the sky and jogged toward my teammates and the celebration.

We lined up, shook hands with the other team and wished them luck in the playoff. Back in the dugout, I put my bat in my bat bag, took off my cleats, put on my Dockers, put my cleats, glove and batting helmet in the bag. Big Jim came up, slapped me on the arm and said, “That’s the way to rotate and release,” he smiled. “Thanks, Jim,” I said. “I appreciate the help and advice.” “Any time,” he said. I slung the bag over my shoulder, climbed out of the dugout and there was Beera on the right field line with a grin as wide as his outstretched arms. I laughed, dropped my bag and gave him a hug. “Helluva shot,” he said. “Thanks bro,” I said. “We stand in third place alone!” Greggo came by, slapped me on the shoulder and said to Beera, “See you there. We’re stopping by the house and then heading that way.” “Okay, man,” said Beera. Then he said to me, “A group’s coming over to the house this afternoon for beers and burgers around the pool. Y’all want to come?” “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “Mum and Dad are here from the old country and I’ll probably sit around and have a few pints with Dad.”
“That’s right, they got in last week, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell ‘em we said hey. We’ll get together with y’all soon.
“Okay, bro. “Glad y’all made it out today.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. Congratulations again.”
“Thanks.”
As I walked toward the gate to the parking lot, Beera called out, “Hey, Tommy!” I turned, stopped and said, “Yeah?”
“Just wait’ll next year! Right?”
“Right,” I said. I gave him a salute, turned and walked toward the Bug.