It was bright and sunny on Friday. Red Hook hadn't seen much more than a misting of rain since the summer began. Darryl spent the morning reading his assigned chapter from Treasure Island and then writing a description of what happened for his mom to review when she got home. It took him longer than he expected. It was a long chapter. Darryl liked the book. He liked the adventure. He liked to imagine himself as Jim Hawkins, sailing across the oceans and exploring tropical islands full of pirates and buried treasure. Still, he rushed through the end of the chapter because he wanted to make sure that he got to the ball fields in time for the first game. He wrote his write-up so quickly it was barely legible. He decided that, on a day like this, he'd rather deal with an angry mother than miss a baseball game. He wouldn't get to play in a real game again until Monday, being relegated to the status of spectator for the weekend games by his age and inexperience.
Darryl grabbed his glove and a ball and raced down to the fields. He looked at his watch as he ran and figured that he would make it just in time to be picked for one of the teams. Since he never got picked until near the end, it wouldn't matter if they started picking before he got there. But when Darryl turned the final corner and faced the baseball fields, he was surprised to see that they were empty except for two other kids standing near home plate. Darryl's run slowed to a jog. He looked around, half expecting to see everybody come walking to the fields from another direction, but no one else came.
"Where is everybody?" Darryl asked when he got to the field. He knew the other two boys who were standing near home plate but he wasn't friends with either of them. They were both a year younger than Darryl, twin brothers. They had just moved to the neighborhood this summer but already had more friends on the teams than Darryl did.
"Yo no se," one the boys responded with a shrug. Darryl looked around peevishly. He slipped his left hand into his glove and started flinging his baseball into the pocket of his glove with his other hand. He liked the snapping sound the ball made when it hit the leather. He figured that all he could do was wait.
Vintner hadn't been to the ball fields in over a week. He'd been traveling for the past few days on a job. The job was a difficult one. He often wondered why things weren't made easier for him and wondered if his growing doubts about the whole thing were part of the problem. Doubt probably wasn't the right word. Vintner never doubted the job that he'd been given. He knew its source and he knew its purpose. He had just begun to lose his enthusiasm. So he was glad to have this bright, sunny day to try to forget it all, to try to remember a time when he was young and innocent. He was eager to see if Darryl had remembered his advice, to see if he had internalized it yet. He wanted to see if the kid was hitting better now, with more force.
Even before Vintner could see the ball fields he was aware of the silence. He didn't hear the pinging sound of the aluminum bats striking the baseballs. He didn't hear the sound of the slightly scuffed baseballs that the kids used whizzing through the air. Mostly, however, Vintner noticed the absence of laughter. So Vintner wasn't surprised then when the fields came into view and all he saw was empty grass. He was disappointed but he wasn't surprised. Maybe they didn't play on Fridays, he thought. He tried to remember if he had come on a Friday in the past and was pretty sure he had. Still, Vintner continued on towards the empty ball field, if for no other reason than the fact that he had nowhere else he wanted to go. As he neared the right field fence, Vintner realized that the field wasn't completely empty. Vintner noticed something moving near the batter's box. He took a few steps closer and saw a boy, sitting cross-legged on home plate. It was the kid he'd given the batting advice to. He had his left hand in his baseball glove and was snapping the ball into it with his right hand. When the kid picked the ball up, Vintner could see how the kid's dark skin contrasted with the whiteness of the ball. The ball was clean. Vintner knew that it had never been used in a game. The kid must have been protecting it.
"Where is everybody," Vintner asked as he approached the fence. The boy looked up, surprised to hear someone's voice. He quickly jumped up to his feet, getting into a less vulnerable position. "You don't have to get up," Vintner said. "I've just never seen the ball fields this empty before. No games today?" Darryl shook his head. "What happened?"
"Everybody's at the soccer fields," Darryl said, the tone of his voice unable to mask his disappointment. South of the baseball fields there was a park and at the other end of the park were a number of soccer fields. The games there were even more intense than the baseball games. Rumor had it that professional scouts sometimes showed up to watch.
"They're all playing soccer?" Vintner asked.
"No," Darryl replied. He looked off into the distance in the direction of the soccer fields. "Some famous soccer player is there playing in one of the games. They all ran off to watch and to see if they could get his autograph." Darryl looked like he wanted to kick something, anything.
"You didn't want to go with them?" Vintner asked, sensing the Darryl's loneliness.
"I don't even know who the guy is," Darryl replied with a shrug. Darryl had been standing there with the twins waiting when one of the other kids that they usually play with ran all the way from the soccer fields to inform them that they had to hurry to the soccer fields because so and so was there. The kid was so out of breath that Darryl couldn't even make out the soccer player's name. The twins understood though. When they heard the name, they almost started jumping up and down with excitement. Then the three of them ran off, the twins following their friend towards the soccer field. None of them even gave Darryl a second glance.
Vintner looked over the empty ball field. The sight made him feel hollow inside. He didn't like seeing the emptiness. Ball fields shouldn't be empty on days that beautiful. "So, do you want to play catch?" Vintner finally asked.
Darryl looked at Vintner with suspicion. He remembered how nice Vintner had been to him. He had given Darryl good advice about hitting. Still, he was skeptical. "You don't have a glove," Darryl said.
"That's okay," Vintner replied. "You throw it soft and I can catch it with my hands. I'll give you some grounders so that you can work on your fielding." Darryl couldn't see any harm in it. It was just a game of catch. They were out in the open. Besides, the man seemed nice and Darryl didn't want to go home.
"Okay," Darryl replied.
"You go to second base," Vintner said, motioning with his head as he walked on to the field, "I'll stand near home plate." Vintner smiled as he stepped onto the soft yellow dirt of the infield. "It's been a while though kid, so go easy on me." He'd seen Darryl play and knew that, even if he lacked power as a hitter, Darryl could really throw the ball. Vintner stood near home plate and clapped his hands together to signal that he was ready. Darryl lobbed his perfectly white ball in towards Vintner. Vintner caught it, cradling it lightly with two hands like it were an egg. Once he had the ball in his hands, he looked at it. There were a few scuffs on the side so the ball had been used but it was completely free of dirt. The kid must clean it after he uses it, Vintner thought. He turned the ball over in his hands and gripped it, feeling the stitching along his fingers. It had been a long time. He shifted his weight and tossed the ball back at Darryl. He could feel his muscles contract and loosen as he threw. Darryl caught the ball with his glove. He threw it back, this time with a little less arc, though still slow enough that Vintner could catch it bare handed.
"So how's the hitting coming?" Vintner asked before throwing the ball back again.
"Good," Darryl said with a smile that he couldn't be faked. "I had two doubles on Monday and three hits on Tuesday. I had to go to my grandma's house on Wednesday but yesterday I almost had a homerun." Vintner smiled at the boy's enthusiasm. He was sure that if he asked Darryl what type of pitches each of his hits came off of, the boy would know.
"It's all about the shoulder, right?" Vintner said, heaving another throw towards Darryl. Each of Vintner's throws felt better than the last. The ball moved quickly through the air and Darryl snapped it into his glove.
"Yeah," Darryl replied. "I don't even need to touch my chin to my shoulder any more. I just make sure that it stays up."
"That's good," Vintner replied. Darryl threw the ball to him again, this time a little harder than the last.
"So what's your name kid?" Vintner asked.
"Darryl," the boy replied.
"Hi Darryl, I'm Vintner," Vintner said as he hauled back and threw the ball as hard as he could at Darryl. He could still get some torque on the ball but he was sure Darryl could handle it. Darryl picked it out of the air with ease. "You lived around here for a long time Darryl?" Vintner asked.
"My whole life." Darryl shrugged at the silliness of the question. Darryl couldn't imagine living anywhere else, could picture life outside of his neighborhood. He zipped the ball back to Vintner. Vintner caught it with his two hands and it stung. Still, he didn't tell Darryl to slow it down. He enjoyed the sting. He threw a two hopper to Darryl. Darryl took two quick steps to his right and nabbed the ball quickly after its second bounce.
"How long you been coming down here?" Vintner asked as Darryl threw the ball back to him. Then Vintner threw the ball high into the air, giving Darryl a pop up to catch. The ball arced across the blue sky, shifting only slightly in the breeze that blew across the fields.
Darryl moved under the ball and answered Vintner's question as the ball fell towards his glove. "About two years," Darryl replied, "but they didn't let me play at first." Darryl caught the ball and turned to throw it like an outfielder trying to nail a runner at the plate. Vintner had to duck out of the way of the ball, knowing that this one was too fast for him to catch with his bare hands. He didn't want to risk breaking a finger. The ball clanged against the chain link backstop. "Sorry," Darryl laughed.
"No problem," Vintner replied, going back to retrieve the ball. "Why didn't they let you play?" He tossed the ball back to Darryl and found his spot again near home plate.
"I was young and they told me that black kids didn't play baseball." Vintner and Darryl began to develop a gentle rhythm with their throws, talking mostly while the ball was in the air.
"Black kids don't play baseball, huh?" Vintner echoed. "Did you tell them about Jackie Robinson? Willie Mays? Hank Aaron? Rickey Henderson?" Vintner named a different player with each throw.
"Those aren't kids," Darryl replied. "They're old.:"
"What about Barry Bonds? He's not that old."
"He is to old," Darryl replied, fielding another grounder that Vintner had thrown to him, this one forcing him to range to his left. "Besides, I don't like Barry Bonds."
"Why not?"
"Cause he's a cheater," Darryl replied.
"Fair enough." Vintner knew better than to argue with a boy Darryl's age about moral ambiguities. For his own part, Vintner was all too aware of them. He didn't want to do anything to shatter that part of the boy's world, the part where right is right and wrong is wrong.
"So who do you like?" Vintner asked.
"Huh?" Darryl replied, not hearing Vintner as he ranged back to catch another fly ball. Other than that one throw, Darryl kept throwing the ball fast but not too fast for Vintner to catch.
"Who's your favorite player?" Vintner asked.
"Darryl Strawberry," Darryl answered with confidence. Vintner took the ball and held it in his hands for a moment.
"How old are you," Vintner asked without throwing the ball.
"Thirteen," Darryl responded.
"How do you even know who Darryl Strawberry is?" Vintner threw the ball again, restarting their rhythm.
"My dad told me about him. He told me that he hit longer home runs than anybody else. He told me that you could close your eyes and just listen and you could tell that Strawberry was batting because the ball sounded different when Strawberry hit it."
"Is that who you are named after?" Vintner asked.
"Yeah," Darryl replied proudly.
"He was a hell of a hitter," Vintner said, squeezing another of Darryl's throws between his hands. Vintner's hands were beginning to get numb. With each throw he could feel his back tightening. Vintner knew that he was going to be sore the next day but he had no interest in stopping.
"Did you ever see him play?" Darryl asked. It was the first question Darryl asked Vintner during the whole conversation. Until then, Vintner had asked all the questions.
"A couple of times," Vintner said. "I'm more of a Yankee fan so I saw him a bunch of times when he played for the Yankees but I also saw a couple games at Shea."
"Darryl Strawberry played for the Yankees?" Darryl asked.
"Yup," Vintner replied. "It was later in his career and he couldn't hit like he did when he was on the Mets, but he played on the Yanks for a couple of years." Darryl didn't respond. He just caught ball and threw ball and tried to process the information.
"I saw him once at Shea when he hit a home run into the parking lot."
"Really?" Darryl's eyes grew big at the thought.
"Really," Vintner replied, throwing the ball high in the air again. He tried to remember that day, decades earlier. He was almost a young man then. All Vintner felt like he could remember was memories of memories, unclear pictures that had been processed so many times they had begun to fade. "Your dad take you to a lot of games?" Vintner asked, believing it to be an innocent question.
Darryl shook his head. "I don't see my dad very much," Darryl replied. Vintner could feel the tension in Darryl's next throw. It stung his hands. It was the hardest ball Darryl had thrown since he ricocheted the ball off the backstop.
"Did he ever take you to a game?" Vintner asked, unsure of how far he should push the questions.
"No," Darryl responded. He paused. "I've never been to a pro game," Darryl said the words as if they were a confession. The two of them continued to throw but, after that, the conversation lagged. It was just as easy, sometimes easier, to throw the ball without talking.
They played catch for what must have been hours, not slowing down until the late afternoon. None of the other kids returned to the baseball field that day. Darryl and Vintner only stopped when Darryl said that he had to get home, that his mother liked it when he got home before she did. Vintner was a disappointed when Darryl said he had to leave. His body was already aching but he would have kept on playing.
Once Darryl said he had to go, Vintner threw the ball to him one last time and Darryl caught it in his glove. Then Darryl tucked his glove under his armpit and started running home. He always ran home. He never walked. He waved goodbye to Vintner only after he'd already run halfway across the outfield. He didn't even stop running to do so, instead simply turning and waving while running backwards. From a distance, Darryl looked like he was dropping back to catch a long fly ball. Vintner waved back and then Darryl turned and was gone.
The skin on Vintner's hands had worn thin from catching Darryl's hard throws without a glove. Both his palms were bleeding slightly and Vintner worried that he might have gotten blood stains on Darryl's pristine ball. He didn't worry about it too much though. He was pretty sure he knew a way to make it up to him.
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