Opposite Field Blast

A baseball fiction

We were both old. Milt lost his eyesight in 2004. Since ’05, he hasn’t heard a word, and so we exchanged a few letters. I’d write to him about my begrudging acceptance of Father Time keestering me. He had a live-in nurse and I guessed some kind of Braille tablet-thingamajig that he used to communicate with her and dictate correspondence. His letters were upbeat, mostly about baseball, but he’d write about players and teams that never existed, games that never happened. Who in the hell was “Lightning Armed Lefty, Arlester Clackamas? Callow Rookie, Winston Superape; Diminutive Fireballer, Chubby Chase; Lord of the Leather, Wizard Stiltzkin….” I just assumed Milt was losing it.

Milt was one tough son of a bitch. I couldn’t imagine him cooped up at home, unable to see, listen to his beloved Red Legs, communicate with anyone, or exercise. I had my wife, my children, the grandkids, the great grandkids, and nominal ownership of the ranch. I wondered what in the hell was keeping him alive.

The letter I received two days ago read:

Joe,

Come quick. Take in a ballgame with me.

Your friend,

Milt Floyd.

We hadn’t visited one another for years, and I wasn’t too thrilled about seeing him in this condition. I couldn’t imagine him being able to attend a game, but there was no way I could turn a request down from my best friend.

During my flight from Dallas to Cincinnati, memories of our time together, from basic training to the European Theatre to past visits, flooded my mind Sometime around ’82, I believe, I’d gone to Cincinnati to visit Milt and went to the concession stand to get Milt his lemonade, a tub of popcorn and a beer and some nachos for myself. Coming from Texas, I was leery of Riverfront Stadium Tex-Mex but figured I’d give them a try. The look on Milt’s face was one of absolute disgust. “What in the hell are those things and how in the hell do you eat them?” I just laughed. Milt was being Milt. As I began eating the nachos, he came, in his own quiet way, completely unhinged. “Get a goddamned fork, Joe. You’re embarrassing yourself eating with your hands like some kind of goddamned jungle ape.” There was no use trying to explain to him that eating crisp tortilla chips with a plastic ballpark fork was about as effective as me flapping my arms and expecting to take flight. “You’re a smart man, Joe,” he continued, “Why is it you don’t know those goddamned jalapeños will rot your stomach?”

Two days later, we’re at Seder and I’m watching Milt put heaping mounds of horseradish root on matzo. I say to him, “Milt, that stuff is a thousand times hotter than those limp ballpark jalapeños, and here you are wolfing it down.” He gives me this sheepish grin, takes another bite, dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin, and says, “Incongruous…” That’s Milt Floyd for you. No hypocrite, but damn inscrutable at times.

I was greeted at Milt’s door by a young woman who introduced herself as, “Nelly. Mr Floyd’s nurse and official scorekeeper.” She instructed me to leave my bag at the door and said, “Follow me to the broadcast booth.”

Scorekeeper? Broadcast booth? What in the hell was going on? She led me to what I’d previously known as Milt’s study – a beautifully appointed, cavernous room with a wall of windows overlooking the river towards Kentucky. “As you know, he can’t see or hear you. He...”

“Joe! Joe! Welcome! I can smell the ranch on you from a mile away.” He was beaming. “Come in, come in. Come give me a hug.” I hardly recognized him. Physically, he was still Milt, maybe a bit shriveled from age since I’d last seen him. Asking for a hug? He was a handshake man. Ear to ear grin? He usually wore a scowl. Pale blue seersucker pajamas in the middle of the day? This was not the Milt Floyd I’d known.

“So you’ve met Nelly. Great girl. Great girl. Scorekeeper extraordinaire and archivist of the Stuffs and Things Professional Baseball League. Easy on the eyes, ain’t she?”

I went around the desk and hugged him. He held me tight. It was unsettling, in a good way though, to embrace my friend.

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable, Joe. No, actually wait. Take a stroll around the room and check it out. Nelly, please give him the lowdown.” He was ebullient, and I wondered if he was hopped up on prescription medication. Knowing he couldn’t hear me, I asked Nelly what meds my friend was taking.

“He’s high on life, Mr. May. Just a multi-vitamin and love of baseball…and of course overjoyed that you’re here. He talks about you every day. Let me give you a quick tour of the League Office. That’s what Mr. Floyd calls it. It’s really to make my job easier,” she explained as she lead me over over to the east wall of the room. The wall had been re-done, painted a chalkboard surface. “As you see, the Columbus Blackouts lead the Central Division of the Red Book League; have a four game winning streak, are are holding a narrow one game lead over the Covington Venus Loungers. The Suffolk Hog Scrapers are atop the Red Book Eastern Division and the Taos Canyon Funk Mob are the pace-setters in the West. Over here are the Green Book League standings, and here we have the offensive leaderboards. Pitching leaders are here.” The chalkboard extended the length of the wall and was covered with standings, statistics, and schedules. “The league records are here. They go back ten seasons,” she said as she opened then shut a few file cabinet drawers bursting with documents. “As I’m sure you figured out, we won’t be going down to the ballpark. The games are in his head.”

“In his head? Has he completely lost his mind?”

“On the contrary, Mr. May. He’s the sanest, happiest man I know,” she replied. “He’s as sharp as can be. He has every name and number on these walls and in those cabinets committed to memory. I’ve been with him going on six years now and each is just a joy since he’s started calling these ballgames.”

I was dumbfounded. Solemn Milton James Floyd had done a complete 180. He’d never indulged any sort of fantasy life. I’d never taken him for a creative and here I was in the midst of fairyland. I needed a drink.

“It’s just about game time!” Milt shouted, interrupting the grinding of the gears of my mind. “The Little Dukes are hosting the Gin Soaks.”

“I best get that popcorn popping’,” Nelly said as she made her way over to a commercial sized popcorn machine. “We don’t play ball without it. You go make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you a beer.”

“Good afternoon, lovely fans of our National Pastime. I’m Milt Floyd bringing you all the action from Slaughterhouse Yards. Gorgeous ballpark here on the banks of the Ohio and home of your first place Little Dukes. We’ve got a real treat for you today as my lifelong brother in arms, the erstwhile Joe May joins me in the booth. Joe’s a Big Bend Beasts season ticket holder, but don’t hold that against him, folks. It’s a real scorcher in Porkopolis today. 99 degrees in the shade. This heat takes one back to boot camp down in Mississippi, eh, Joe?”

What the hell, I figured. I decided to go along for the ride. I drained the beer Nelly handed me in one pull and asked for another. “Sure thing, honey. I’ll be busy keeping the book once the game starts, so feel free to just get up and get your own. Frosted mugs are in the freezer below the bar. When the game’s over, I’ll set you up with the Screen Braille Communicator so you two can talk.”

“Shamu Abraham breaches, as he does every fifth day as staff ace of the Little Dukes rotation, toeing the rubber for Porkopolis. Abraham is looking for his 10^th win of the year, he’s 9 and 4 on the year with a nifty 2.12 ERA. He loves the humidity. At 349 pounds, Shamu breaks a sweat brushing his teeth. Bubbles Frump leads things off for the Gin Soaks. San Francisco comes into play today in a dead heat with the Pagosa Springs Master Blasters atop the Green Book Western Division. They’ll don their road grays with orange piping and black lettering. Boilerman Fanucci is behind the plate calling balls and strikes and the rest of the umpiring crew features Bramble Patch at first, TJ Sucklings at second, and Horse Eggs Evans at third. First pitch fastball from Abraham is taken for a strike and we’re under way, folks. Big crowd on hand today and beer sales should be brisk, further stuffing the gold-lined pockets of Little Dukes owner, Uncle Pernicious. Shamu delivers, pitch swung on and drilled down the first base line and into the corner. Right-fielder Darius Throwingstar chases it down and it’s a leadoff double for Frump. That’ll bring catcher, Magnifico Casanova, to the plate. The switch-hitting Casanova comes into play today hitting .329 with 11 bombs and 41 driven in. Abraham, working from the stretch, sights the sign from battery-mate Foggy Notion, and misses upstairs, ball one. Ground ball, right side, fielded cleanly by first baseman Mister Boo Boo, who’ll take it to the bag himself for out number one as Frump moves to third. Veteran slugger, Bruno Maverick steps into the box. Maverick clubbed 47 round-trippers a year ago. His game winning moonshot off Scat closer, Bombo La Luz two nights ago in Sarasota, was the 300^th circuit blast of his career. Here’s the pitch, and Maverick takes a mighty cut and comes up empty.”

“Bruno Maverick…Maverick. Bruno,” I wondered aloud. “I’ve heard that name before…”

“Those were Mr Floyd’s dogs when he was a boy. Bruno and Maverick. You’ve got a good memory, Mr. May,” Nelly said.

“Pitch swung on and belted, deep center field, Shefangs is on his horse, to the track, to the wall, he leaps and…he brought it back…he brought it back! Oh, mercy me! Rickey Shefangs robs Maverick of a home run. What a play! Frump tags and scores and it’s one to nothing Frisco. Leroy Greasetrap will be the two out batter. Greasetrap returns to the lineup after serving a ten game suspension for breaking curfew. Let’s just say it’s most fitting that he plays for the Gin Soaks. If you don’t count looks, personality, or intellect, Leroy is a helluva guy. “

“I’ve been to at least fifty games with Milt, probably more. There’s no bigger fan, but this…this is something else. It’s like he was born to be a broadcaster, Nelly.”

“Home half of the first and shortstop Livingston Buzz will lead things off for the Little Dukes here against Gin Soaks southpaw, Sir Lancelot Yapsalot. Buzz is working on a 21 game hitting streak. He squares to bunt and lays down a beauty, Calibozo charges, scoops, bobbles, and wisely decides to put the ball in his back pocket. Leadoff man is on and that’ll bring left fielder, Beauregard Mushy to the plate. Mushy loves the sour mashy, folks. When he’s not not on the diamond, he can usually be found wrestling a bottle of Colonel’s Club Bourbon. He told me not too long ago, ‘Milt, you know, when I’m sober, the horsehide looks like a corn kernel, but when I get a few in me, it looks like a big old medicine ball.’ I’m not so sure there’s such a thing as a functional alcoholic, but you can’t argue with the numbers. Mushy has a career on base percentage of .463 and he takes ball one low and away. Beauregard is adept at getting hit by pitches. Nineteen times already this season, and I’m just guessing here, but part of me thinks it’s some kind of spiritual issue he’s trying to resolve. Pennance? Who knows? Hell, he might just be a goddamn masochist. There goes Buzz from first, hit and run, and Mushy rips a low line drive into center. That’ll put runners on the corners for second baseman, Kid Gallivanting. “

“Base hit, Kid!” I was surprised to hear myself shout. Fully caught up in the Little Dukes rally, a little bit of a beer buzz going and cheering for mythical ballplayers. This was not at all what I expected.

“Gallivanting, with his gray-green eyes, cascading blond curls, and matinee idol looks gained further notoriety following his All Star rookie campaign posing for Playgirl. It was, if you’re into that kind of thing, a tasteful spread; entitled, ‘Mr. October: Bat and Balls.’ He’s a real swashbuckler, both on and off the field if you know what I mean. And he draws a walk to load the bases. Gin Soaks pitching coach, Spanky Dumpgull bounds out of the visitors dugout heading for the mound, ostensibly to calm down his hurler, Yapsalot.”

These names, the folksy patois! Where in the hell was he coming up with this stuff? Milt was the straightest arrow I’d ever known. Milt never swore around women. Hearing him speculating and commenting on the sex lives of ballplayers was jarring. This complete transformation – from reticence to effusiveness – made no sense. The unabashed joy in his face and bearing though…reminded me of my kids running through the sprinkler years ago. Not a damn care in the world.

“Here’s cleanup man, Viceroy Creature. Hitless over the last fortnight; his typically fearsome 36 inch 35 ounce cudgel has been rendered impotent. ‘I might as well take a fucking mint flavored toothpick to the plate these days,’ Creature told me during batting practice this morning. I let him know he’s human and imperfect and blah blah blah trying to get a rise out of him and lighten things up, and he playfully growled, ‘Just one fucking time in my life, I’d like someone to welcome me to the human race when I’m going good, Milt.’ Sir Lancelot, working from the full windup, delivers, and bye bye bye bye bye bye baseball. Grand slam! 4-1 Little Dukes. That ball was absolutely massacred by the slugger. A titanic shot that’s still traveling folks. Anything hit that high and far ought to have a Cosmonaut or two on it.”

“Slump busted,” exclaimed Nelly. I had jumped out of my seat and crossed the room to give her a high five. “It’s a beautiful thing,” she said.

“I need to talk to him, but I don’t want to interrupt his flow,” I told her. She reached over and typed a quick message on the Braille contraption.

Milt continued, “That monolithic blast off the bat of Viceroy Creature has opened up the heavens. It’s pouring down rain here at Slaughterhouse Yards and the Gin Soaks nine race toward the third base dugout in search of dry purchase. The grounds crew will roll out the tarp and we’re in a rain delay, folks.”

“Come on over and sit here Joe, right next to Mr. Floyd. It works just like any old keyboard,” Nelly instructed me. “I’ll go shuck us some Kumamoto’s and leave you two alone.”

“Oysters! Milt! What in the hell has gotten into you,” I typed. He’d given me countless lectures through the years about how eating raw fish was, Like playing Russian Roulette, goddamnit! You’re dancing with death, Joe.

“Who says you can’t teach a real old dog some very new tricks. They’re delicious,” he said with that patented sheepish grin of his. “I’m so glad you’re here, my friend. Nelly has been a lifesaver, a life changer. She’s turned me on to all sorts of delights.”

“Thank you for summoning the rain, Milt,” I typed.

“Thank Viceroy Creature, Joe,” he said

We spent the next three hours talking—me typing, him talking—gushing really about old times and life. It was no different than him calling the ballgame. The man radiated joy. He told me how losing both his vision and his hearing were the greatest gifts he’d ever received. He shared how he had no regrets about the way he’d approached the world for the first eighty one years of his life and how, “With the help of Nelly, I decided it was time to try on something new.”

“I love you, Milt,” I typed

“I love you too, Joe. The grounds crew has removed the tarp and we’re moments away from resuming play. Rain or shine, it’s always a beautiful day for a ballgame, folks.”