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The Darkness Outside the Window

Way back, before they started counting such things, Timmy Garber went 45 and 0 to start the season, losing his first game sometime after Labor Day, but before the first snowfall, which, that year, happened on Halloween. In his estimation, he finished the year at 51-1, losing that once on a couple of bad pitches and some bad breaks. "It takes a lucky man to have a perfect season," his buddy Bump would tell him. He usually said this around one single solitary piece of straw in his mouth. Some kids chewed gum like it was a religion, Bump chewed his straw, well, chewed his straw like he was a cow. He'd often visit a mutual buddy of theirs, Jimbo, whose dad had a farm not too far away from where they played their home games, and ask to see the barn and the cows. When he thought no one was looking, or was desperate enough and knew that enough people weren't looking, he'd grab a handful of straw, usually from a high, clean place, and shove it in his pocket. Just to keep himself going through the winter.

That magical summer Timmy struck out Bump and Jimbo, between them, somewhere in the realm of a hundred strikeouts each. At least. This was in the days before statisticians and strict record keeping. But for all the mythology that could have crept up around past players who once graced the self same field and filled shoes and cleats bigger than the biggest giants, there was no one who could remember anyone looming as large as Timmy Garber that summer. Maybe Pedro in 1999 and 2000.

He helped his own cause, of course, and added to the legend by hitting a then-record of 114 home runs, including fourteen lost balls -- some lost beyond discovery, at least seven lost in plain sight up on the roof, stuck in the gutter with the leaves and the acorns from the oak trees. Timmy was more adept at using those oak trees to get extra runs, cause a little extra hassle for the opposing defense, ricocheting the ball from one tree to the next, sending defenders scurrying back and forth. Bump's little brother once had to leave a game early, sick from spinning from tree to tree chasing a Wiffle Ball that hit a total of no less than four trees before hitting the ground. That was part of Timmy's legend.

And it was that legend that he never brought up, each spring, as his nieces and nephews would clamor for more players to come out and pitch to them. He'd stand in the same worn out patch of lawn he'd pitched from years before with a fresh stick each day they played for the mound. He'd stretch it out slowly. Spotting pitches for the little guys and girls to hit. Feeling that holey plastic in his hand. Bringing his arm right down over the top, almost hitting his ear as he brings his arm down and through the throw.

In his mind, he went back over that one year. He couldn't wait to get out on the lawn, whether it was his, Bump's, or any number of other kids' yard in the neighborhood. The hollow PONK of the bat as they warmed up, and then, after that, simply the odd tick or tock. Even those little weak noises would inspire glee in the opposing batter. Even his older brothers would celebrate the little mercies of a bit of contact as the ball dipped or rose away from the bat like the air off the bat itself was pushing the ball away from getting a hit. Bump was notorious for his premature and nearly always unwarranted victory dances. But there he'd be, doing his chicken dance thing at the plate after a single. It's what kept the games from getting boring and one-sided, Timmy supposed. Sometimes he'd give up a couple singles, doubles, even, to keep things interesting. Add a little pressure to the game. A little more. One game in August, as the Sox were going on a drought and unable to scrape a win at all, Timmy nearly threw one. He gave up a half dozen runs early to a tag team of Jimbo and Bump, playing himself with Bump's little brother, Skeed. Skeed was a nice kid, but about as much use in the field as a dog. Less, if the ball was hit into the brambles at the edge of Timmy's parent's yard. They fell behind that day, and Timmy needed to pull off some impressive hitting to end up tied with a few minutes of daylight left, banging balls off the walls of the garage to get double after double.

He won the game after five more innings, as the fireflies were beginning to warm up for the night. It was a walk-off home run off the top of the birdhouse that carried over the roof of the shed that housed the lawnmower and Wiffle Ball and bat set when they weren't being used.

That night, if he thinks back to it, he probably didn't have dinner that night, it was so late by the time he got in.

But inevitably, on those days with his nieces and nephews, someone else would bring up the legend. Usually after he gave up a hit, someone dribbling something out in front of the plate, or a big strikeout. And he'd try to grin and shake it off, and just get back to throwing them in there, reaching back slowly, as if he were pitching under water. He'd keep the kids out there until the sky grew dark, the crickets would punctuate the silences between pitches, hits, and shouts. One or two of them would stay out there until the bitter end, when their parents were standing in the door on the porch, arms folded, watching and only occasionally commenting on the time, or bedtime, or the ride home.

Sometimes Timmy would take a stroll outside after they all went in for last desserts and collect the bat and Wiffle balls from the dewy grass, look up at the sky and shoulder the bat. He'd spend an hour or two out there, staring up at the sky before putting the gear in the shed, and heading inside to the light and the warmth. And brownies, sometimes.

02 Apr, 2007

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