Chapter 26 a ball game

The night before the Veterans Memorial Game, I stayed at the Best Western Hotel.It made me think about my old days playing ball and what it was like to be out of town a lot.I can not sleep.I thought about how many people would come to the game.I'm worried that I won't hit the ball.At 5:30 in the morning, I wake up and do some stretching.A red light was blinking on the phone stand.I called the counter.The phone rang at least twenty times. Finally someone came to pick it up.I said: The message light on my phone is on. Wait a moment and the voice mumbles: Yes.There is a package for you.

I go down the stairs.The counter clerk handed me a shoe box.A piece of paper with my name on it was taped to the box.He yawned.I open the shoebox. Inside are my baseball spikes. Father had apparently kept the shoes for many years.He must have delivered it last night, and he didn't even call to my room to say anything.I check to see if he left a note.Nothing else was found.The only thing in the box was the pair of scratched spikes. I got to the baseball field early.I went against my old habits and asked the taxi to drop me off on the side of the players' entrance.But the guard wanted me to go in through the same door that the staff came in and out of, and that was also the door that the beer and hot dog vendors used to come in and out.The gym was empty and smelled of sausage.It was a strange feeling to come back to this place.For years, I've longed for the chance to come back and play.Now I'm part of a promo, Veteran's Day, playing a few innings with free nostalgia, which is a way to sell tickets like baseball cap day, ball day, fireworks day.

I went to the players' locker room with the lockers.The door attendant found my name on the list and gave me the team uniform for the day. where can i Go there, anywhere.He pointed to a row of metal lockers painted blue. Two gray-haired men were talking in a corner.They nodded at me and continued their conversation.I felt so out of place, like I was in someone else's high school reunion.But then again, I once played six weeks in the major leagues.This is not something you have to be friends with for life. I have Bernato stitched on the back of my uniform.However, when I looked carefully, I still found the name that had been sewn on on the faded traces of the clothes.But I pulled the clothes over my head, and my hands drilled and drilled out of the cuffs.

After procrastinating and finally putting on the uniform, I turned around and saw Willie, nicknamed the bomber.Jackson was standing a few steps away. Everyone knows Jackson.He's a good striker and has a reputation for striking power and arrogance.Once, during a playoff game, he pointed his bat in the direction of right field, indicating that he was going to hit the ball that way.Then he hit a soaring home run.You only need one of those performances in your career, and the constant replay of that on TV is enough to make you immortal.That's what he is. He sat on the stool next to me.I never played with Jackson.He looked squat and stocky, his figure in a blue cotton velvet tracksuit almost inflated.But he still exudes a regal air.He nodded to me and I nodded to him.

Are you OK?He said. My name is Chick.Bernato.I hold out my hand.He didn't hold my palm, just grabbed my fingers and pulled.He didn't say his name from beginning to end.Everyone understands, he doesn't need to say it. Chuck, what have you been up to lately? I did not correct his pronunciation.I said, I'm doing marketing. And you?I asked: Are you still broadcasting? Um.Broadcast a little bit.Most are investing. I nodded.Wow formidable.Enter the investment world. Mutual Fund."Some are tax-sheltered investments, some are unit trusts," he said.It's that kind of stuff.Most of the rest are mutual funds.

I nodded again.I thought it was stupid of me to put the jersey on early. Do you enter the market to play stocks?He said. I tap my palms lightly.That is, a little bit here and there.This is a lie.I did nothing here and there. His jaw moved, studying me carefully. Listen, I can introduce you to some people. For a moment, what he said sounded very clever.The famous Jackson offered to take me to some people I had in mind for a lot of money that I didn't own.He reached into his pocket, probably to take out his business card, when suddenly someone shouted: Jackson, you fat ass!He turned with me to see Alexander the Nail standing there.He and Jackson hugged each other so hard they almost fell on top of me.I had to get out of the way.

A minute later, they were at the other end of the room, surrounded by many people.That's the end of my mutual fund time. The Veteran's Memorial Game is played an hour before the actual game.It meant that when we started playing, the stands were pretty much empty.The music of the organ sounded.The game announcer welcomes the scattered spectators to watch the game.The announcer announced the names of the players one by one in alphabetical order.The first is outfielder Rossi.Aaron Baker, he played in the late 1940s.Then came Benny, nicknamed Bobo.Barbossa, a popular infielder in the 1960s, had a wide-eyed grin.He ran onto the field and waved to the crowd.The fans were still clapping for Barbossa when the announcer called my name.The announcer said: From the 1973 championship team, you heard a voice of anticipation, and then he said that the catcher called Chick Charles.Bernato.The volume in the auditorium suddenly decreased, and the enthusiasm decreased, turning into polite waiting.

I jumped out of the dugout and almost hit Barbossa's leg.I quickly took my place before the applause subsided, lest I face an awkward moment of silence, where I could hear my own footsteps on the sand.Somewhere in the crowd sat my father.However, in my imagination, he will look like a pair of arms folded over his chest.On the home team side, no one applauds. Then, the ball game started.The players' dugout was like a train station, with men hurrying in and out, grabbing bats and bumping each other.Spikes creaked on the concrete floor.I was the catcher for one inning, which was long enough.Because after so many years, squatting like a catcher again, I just caught the third ball, and my thigh hurt like a fire.I was constantly shifting my weight from one foot to the other.Finally, there was a big hairy-armed hitter named Teddy.Slaughter, he said to me: Hey man, don't you jump around behind me, okay?

To the spectators that kept coming in, I think it looked like a baseball game.Eight outfielders, a pitcher, a hitter, plus an umpire in black.But we are far away from our youth, and we can no longer dance the smooth and powerful dance of youth.We become sluggish and clumsy.The clubs we swing look heavy; the balls we throw are too high, then drop and look hollow. In our dugout, a few men with beer bellies visibly threw up their hands in surrender to aging.They said like oh my god, bring me an oxygen tank!Such jokes.However, there are still some who take every game seriously.I sat next to an old fielder of Puerto Rican descent.He is at least sixty years old.From time to time, he spit tobacco juice on the floor and muttered to himself: Come on, baby, come on

Finally it was my turn to strike.The audience in the stadium is less than half full.I took a few practice swings and then walked into the strike zone.The sun hid behind the clouds.I heard a peddler yelling loudly.I feel the sweat on the back of my neck.I move my feet a little bit.Even though I've done it a million times, gripping the bat, relaxing my shoulders, adjusting my jaw, and paying attention, my heart is still pounding.I just want to get through the next few seconds.The first pitch came. The referee said: bad ball!I really want to thank him. Have you ever had this experience?When something happened, you were thinking about something else that happened at the same time?After my mother got divorced, she would often stand on the back porch and smoke as the sun went down.She would say: Charlie, now the sun is setting here, but it is rising in another part of the world, like Australia or China or something.You can check the encyclopedia to find out.

She let out a puff of smoke and stared into the back yard.There are laundry poles and swings in the yard. The world is so big, and her tone is full of longing: somewhere, there is always something happening. She was right in saying that.Somewhere, something is always going on.So when I stand on the striker's field at the Veterans Memorial Game and stare at the gray-haired pitcher as he throws a fastball that he used to have and now it's just flung toward my chest; The stick touched the ball, and I heard the familiar clang.I dropped the bat and ran forward.I believe I played beautifully.I forgot how far I used to feel, that my arms and legs weren't as strong as they used to be, that the walls around the court get farther away as you get older.When I looked up and saw what I thought was a slugger, maybe a home run, down just beyond the infield line and into the glove of the waiting second baseman, I knew it was just a flash in the pan , just a dank firecracker, a useless thing.A voice in my head yelled: Drop the ball!Drop the ball!As the second baseman clutched his glove, as I offered my final sacrifice to the inexplicable ball game and as it all happened, things happened in Pipewell Beach, as my mother had grasped. Her alarm clock radio was playing big band music.Her pillows were freshly made, fluffy and soft.She was looking for newly fitted red-rimmed glasses in her bedroom when her body fell to the floor of her bedroom like a broken doll. heart attack.severe. She took her last breath. After the Veterans Memorial Game, we walked past the players from the official game to the players' lounge.We look at each other.They were young and smooth-skinned; we were fat and balding.I nodded to a muscular guy with a catcher's shield on his chest.I felt as if I walked into the lounge and watched myself walk out. After entering the players' lounge, I packed my things in twos and twos.Someone has gone to the shower, but it seems stupid to go to the shower at this time.We didn't try very hard.I folded the coat and kept it as a souvenir.I zipped up my tote bag, changed into my outfit, and sat for a few minutes.It doesn't seem to be interesting. I went out the same door I came in through, the one used by the staff.My father stood there with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, looking up at the sky.He seemed surprised to see me come out. Thank you for giving me spikes.I picked up the shoes and showed him. what are you doing hereHis tone was displeased: Can't you find someone to talk to inside? I snorted, mockingly.I don't know why.dad.I want to come out and say hello to you.I haven't seen you for about two years. God.He shook his head with a disgusted expression on his face: "Will talking to me make you go back to play?"