No Fat Bat Boy is Invisible
Drawing by Stephen Wiltshire.
A Fireman oils and polishes one of the station's trucks. His beaming sweat from the hot summer day is doing similar work to the asphalt beneath him. A radio is filling the station’s garage with anecdotes, jokes and subliminals told by a New York Yankees broadcaster. For a New York fireman, every night is an eventful one. Much of these summer days are spent shaded, cleaning the soot from the previous night. With the addition of cold pizza from the kitchen refrigerator, this is what the next several hours has in store for the Fireman.
The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball arrived at his hotel room past midnight. He calls room service for a late dinner and takes a shower. He turns the television on and scrolls through the guide. A Jason Statham movie is on channel 253. He turns to it. A vacuum infomercial boasts an “improved water lift” feature for what seems like several minutes. The screen goes dark for a second before the same infomercial repeats. A melodic soft knock on the door brings plattered good news. He enjoys his room service burger and the rest of his liminal time before his next at bat.
Pierce chucks his backpack against the couch and launches himself into a recliner. He flips from the Discovery Channel to ESPN. The Fireman, Pierce’s uncle, interjects his momentum. “You know how your mother is about TV right after school.” This is a common phrase used by the Fireman showing that he’s aware that Pierce is trying to take advantage of his uncle’s more lenient screen time rules in the absence of his mother. “Yes, but the top ten will be on soon. I’ll start homework as soon as it’s done.” The Fireman agrees with his nephew as he makes his way to the kitchen table for a copy of Road Runner magazine. The Fireman doesn't watch baseball anymore. He listens. Sportscenter's top ten plays echo from the living room.
It’s not that The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball doesn’t like doing press interviews after games, it’s that he’s just terribly talentless at such things. He is not afraid to show his lack of enthusiasm regarding his thoughts on matters of the psychology of baseball and his reaction thereto. As a result, he is hated by the media and unimpressive in the eyes of the fans. Last year was much different. Not quite forgotten, but everyone wishes it that way. The interviews and responses are entirely an obligation of past success. Politely and reluctantly, The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball sits down with cameras pointed, recorders clicked and microphones live. He watches the reporters as they shuffle and compete for the most centered seat. Third row back, seventh chair from the left. He stares at the seat with an empty mind before the winner of the competition clutters it.
“Given your last appearance for a press interview similar to this, do you have anything to say for the conduct you exuded during that time?” asked Erin Andrews. The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball was not surprised that she won the melee for the most centered seat.
Erin Andrews is wearing WEAR by Erin Andrews. Her new clothing line is noticeably chique and will predictably nail the gift exchange this coming holiday season. Seeing it for the first time right now, he became caught off guard and also pleased by the quality of the piece. He could tell this was no ordinary merch run. “Yeah, there is no excuse for how I carried myself during that interview. I lost control a bit. A slump is no excuse for behavior like that. I make forty-million dollars a year.” He stopped and looked satisfied with his response. Erin Andrews waited and then realized he was finished. “So how do you get out of this rut? Hitting slumps happen to all great hitters, but every player is different and has something special to help them get back on track. What is that thing for you?” He thought about the effectiveness of the marketing strategy that is this press interview. WEAR by Erin Andrews wore by Erin Andrews. Louisville Slugger banners hanging as his backdrop. He thought about the fourteen bats he smashed (so far) this season. He still had splinters in his hand. “I had excellent room service last night.”
At Yankee stadium, before game 116 of the season, there was a scheduled tribute to first responders. September 11th was just around the corner and the Fireman thought that maybe this was an oversight, but then checked and realized that there was a scheduled concert for September 11th. The concert poster read:
Amazon Presents: A 9/11 Story
A Reading by Rudy Giuliani and an Admission by Dick Cheney
The Fireman’s iron pressed uniform laid perfectly against him as he strolled around the immaculately maintained ballpark. He praised the grass and maintenance crew. He walked through the home dugout and looked at the lineup for the night’s game. He took note of the bullpen phone number and thought it weird it was a full ten digits long. A young bullpen can mean plenty of calls on this line in nine innings. The Fireman helped himself to a handful of sunflower seeds from a large bin and spit them towards third base.
Pierce rode the subway home to find his uncle already settled into his chair with several new magazines laid out in front of him. “Didn’t you stay for the game?” asked Pierce. “Nah, got out as soon as possible.” admitted the Fireman. The Fireman spent the rest of the night listening to whatever Pierce decided to watch on television from the kitchen.
The Fireman awoke a few hours later. Almost 10 p.m. The TV blared from the living room. He strolled out into the living room to find Pierce passed out on the couch. He turned off an old Jimmy Stewart movie.
Jazz filled the restaurant along with the well-structured faces of the bustling waiters and waitresses. They wore black and white and led patrons to their tables that bestowed chairs that resembled multiple months of their rent. The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball waltzed through the rotating doors and into the smell of buttery lobster. A few people recognized him, but paid him no mind. He thought about how great New York was for this reason. Even stardom can be unimpressive in New York. He sat down and lifted a finger towards the air and a waiter materialized beside him. He ordered the usual at his usual table.
After ordering, he surveyed the restaurant. He noticed a man pointing towards him from where tourists were seated. Bob Costas, or someone who looks very much like Bob Costas, is trying to get the pointing man to stop and settle down. The man, who looks like a pro fly fisherman trapped inside a Valentino suit, continued to point and a couple of waiters surround him before the situation settled. He thought about how lovely it used to be to listen to Costas cover the Olympics when he was a kid. Ice cream. Blanket forts. The living room. The Olympics. Bob Costas. He lived in that thought for a moment and turned his attention towards the jazz musicians. The waiter brought him his drink as he honed in on each musician and fell into a trance.
The trance was interrupted by commotion behind him. As he was turning around, Bob Costas said, “Joe! Come back here! Let’s just leave.” Once fully turned around, he made sight of a wobbly, sweaty, and upset American Sports Broadcaster Joe Buck coming his way. Before he could even say anything to either man (both of whom he respects up to this point), Joe Buck grabbed the white table cloth and swung it as if he was a magician opening up his act. But instead of the tablecloth coming out from under his meal and other table accessories (The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball didn’t even realize his food came), the entire meal went with the tablecloth and right onto The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball’s suit jacket and pants. The food was cold. Costas was in shock. Joe Buck, then, almost seductively, lowered himself and leaned into The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball, and face full of sweat, said, “No fat bat boy is invisible.”
That night, for three hours, he hit batting practice in his basement (most would call it a gymnasium).
The Fireman woke up from a deep sleep. In a moment’s semi-panic he realized he was once again settled at the kitchen table. Jeopardy was on. He cleared the table of Busch cans before getting up and splashing water on his face, awakening him. His home was blue from the light that crept through the soft blinds. He heard a mellow volume from the living room. The television was on, but the voice of Bob Costas was almost muted. Before he could turn off the television, The Fireman noticed who was up to bat. The batter was a large left hander who, according to the television stat sheet, was hitting a miserable .137 for the year. He watched the batter whiff on a hanging curveball. 2-1 count. He noticed the familiar form of the swing that he helped form in the batter’s formative years. He immediately noticed in the batter’s stance that too much of his jersey number was showing on his back. This was new. The batter needed to reconfigure his hips and relax his torso. A quick adjustment. The batter swung and missed two times in a row for his second strikeout of the night. The Fireman went back to the kitchen.
The Fireman remembered the number and extension to the dugout phone. No chance that would work, right? He put down his magazine and went to the phone. He called the number and a raspy voice with a mouthful of tobacco answered, “Dugout.” “Tell him to reset his hips. I see too much of his back in his stance. He’s overcompensating,” demanded the Fireman. “Who is–” the Fireman cut off the coach as he knew that the coach knew exactly who he was talking about.
In the seventh inning, The Previous Season’s Batting Champion of Major League Baseball hit a hard liner to left center to score the go ahead run. The first base coach put out his hand and said, “Looking smooth.”