The Slide Part II

By Bob Stanley

Very suddenly things begin to change. The ball ricochets away to the left, angling towards another diagonal wooden backstop, and the catcher – one of these proud youngsters we would love to beat - the catcher jogs after the ball. After all, I'm only two-thirds of the way to third base. But I can read the angle of the next bounce the ball will take which will carry it a little farther down the line towards first base. I can read the mindset of the catcher, the angle that the pitcher will receive the ball at, as he comes in to cover the bag, and I know that Sully has scored, with two outs, and if I don’t score this inning - well, who knows. Remember, I still have to reach third.

But at that time-frozen moment, when all is computed, and the battle is joined, I accelerate, negotiate the inside corner of the bag and dash for home. I do it because my father, thirty years ago, must have told me it is better to play than watch, I do it because a down-on-his-luck former major leaguer told me to trust myself, to take the extra base, to force the mistake. I do it, in the end, because I think I can.

Time, which had stopped, suddenly unravels as I run, now really run, as I have not done for a long time. But also swiftly, catcher recovers, retrieves ball, flips to pitcher covering plate. As I close in, time slows down again, as if decision and awareness were a more complete definition of how we measure our lives than seconds or weeks, I'm almost there, but I can see I'm in trouble. He has taken the throw, and though his back is turned, he is pivoting his torso to face the sitting duck that races toward him.

This was where indecision proves beneficial to my cause. In a straight-on slide I'm dead to rights – instinctively I feel he’d tag me on the foot as he swings around to find me in the obvious spot. Collide? Do the Pete Rose thing? I'm 40, he’s 30. It’s 10 o’clock at night and this is a rec league, friendly, you know. Check, I rule this out. Out of options, I stumble, high speed half-step pitch forward, and trust gravity to suspend for one short time – I dive, nay, crash, into the hard dirt, glasses rolling off, 210 pounds of un-toned poet slamming into the dust, but to the first base side of the plate, away from the base at an angle he does not anticipate – I know this can be done.

Now it is just the battle of two hands reaching for something at high speed. I can see my goal. He can’t see his. Even as I skid, my right hand hesitates, then splays forth. Exactly as his glove sweeps above my arm, my open palm sprawls across the plate. Touches it. Even the umpire can see that the tag is missed. I have touched down. The startled call is SAFE, and the game, which after all is only a game, is won.

There must be moments of peace in this life, some sense of unbridled gratification. Certainly the high-fives from my jubilant teammates, the pats on the back, my fuzziness (where are my glasses?) at discovering blood on my face and blood and dust everywhere on my white uniform, certainly these are to be kept as congratulation, a sense of what has been done, But to me the moment of definition was the moment when I first saw the extent of the possible, and made the first move, the burst of whatever speed these knees could provide, and the banked turn around third, as if there were no boundaries, and all things could be, at the moment we let ourselves go.