By Mark Smith
Monday came slinking around again like an alley cat with a mouth full of feathers.
The night was like a red-hot mama, thick and sweaty. The kind that makes you mean. I
was out in left field shagging flies when she showed up, and once I got a look at her sliding
out of her ice silver Audi R8 with a flash of gams long enough to make eternity seem short --
well, those fungoes weren't the only thing I wanted to shag.
She wore her dress like a perfect fastball, high and tight, and it fit her like a batting
glove. I couldn’t quite place the doll’s face, but I knew I’d seen her before. Hell… There
isn’t a pair of pants on the planet who’d forget her. Uncle Ernie with Alzheimers on a bad
coma day would know that hint of a grin. But like I said – I just couldn’t put a name to the
dame. But that’s not front page news. There are plenty of things I’m a little fuzzy on these
days. In my line of work, forgetting some things helps. And I’m getting old, too. Hell, I
play in an over-55 league. But I was sure of one thing: If I’d had a dictionary and looked
up ‘trouble,’ I’d find a picture of her gorgeous mug staring back at me.
They had me behind the plate again. I used to roam around shortstop, but I guess
they think I’ve lost a step or two - though the ladies might disagree. When I got down in
my crouch, I didn’t need a pair of eyes in the back of my head to know she was there,
though in my line of work they’d come in handy. I could feel her watching me from behind
the backstop, her white-hot gaze burning into me like a Double X branding iron sinking into
a Texas Longhorn. I need another problem like Arod needs a hole in his glove, and only a
sucker would have turned around for a look – but then again, remember that old line about
‘Those who forget history are doomed and so on…?’ Well, just call me Mr. Sucker. There
was a bright, blinking neon sign in my brain that read ‘DON’T Eat At Joe’s!’ – but I
sneaked a peak anyway.
When I was just a little scruff, my old man bought me a fire engine red Schwinn
Phantom. To this day, nothing has ever beat the feeling of pedaling around town for hours
on that beauty – but one up close-and-personal look at that doll and I’d have given away
the bike, the forest green MG Triumph TR6, the champagne Mercedes 380SL ragtop and
any three toes for one ride on that sleek chassis. And her grin said she knew it, too. The
twinkle in those raven eyes said I wasn’t the first Tom or Dick who wanted to step up to
her plate. Or the twentieth. Or the hundredth. I could feel the pulse pounding in my veins like
a blackjack on a hoodlum’s noggin. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a Louisville
Slugger on a hanging curve. I’d never felt more goddamn alive in my whole dumb life. But
I knew I was already a dead man.
I commanded my thick skull to turn back to the game.
“Play ball,” said the ump.
Jake wound up and let it fly. It was a perfect pitch – a graceful, high arc coming down
right across the letters. The batter let it go by. It was a thing of beauty, but he knew to lay
off it. It was out of his reach. Seems he was a hell of a lot smarter than I was.
“Steeeee-rike!”
Jake had the magic tonight. The other team was in real trouble.
And so was I.