A Little League game. The crickets are out tonight. So are the yellow flies. And the mosquitoes. Welcome to West Florida. If the insects don’t get you, the snakes will.
The game just ended. The Little Leaguers are doing what every boyhood team has done since the creation of mud. They form a single-file line, walk past the other team, and give high-fives.
They say “Good game,” to each player.
The kids mumble this with the same sincerity it would take to scratch their hindparts. But the point is: they say it. And I hope this tradition never dies.
I was not a good athlete. I was a chubby child with red hair, my only gift was sarcasm. Also, I could make noises with my armpits.
Our third baseman—who I’ll call Gary—was a true athlete. Sports seemed easier for Gary than for others. He was all business when it came to baseball.
Once, my cousin Ed Lee brought a package of Red Man chew to
the field. During the seventh inning, he gave every boy a pinch. But Gary wasn’t even interested. He was only there to play.
“Keep it in your cheek,” my cousin told us. “Whatever you do, don’t swallow your spit.”
When I got up to bat, I was in a stupor.
“What’s wrong with you?” said the coach, who also happened to be my father.
I took one swing and spun so hard that I swallowed the tobacco. That was a pretty bad day.
That was the same game when Gary hit a grand slam. My father was so proud that he lifted Gary onto his shoulders and marched him around the field.
I disliked Gary for this. I disliked him a lot.
Because I could never impress my father the way Gary always did. Gary could swat anything with a bat—including some…