Softball in SnowTitle: Pennant Fever Penance
Author: Sean Ulman
Category: Fiction
Photo: D. Sharon Pruitt
Seward’s Little League coordinator called in sick from work and phoned school to excuse his ‘sick’ son, so they could watch the Mariners opening day game vs. the Athletics.

“Opening day is a holiday,” the former high school All-Star pitcher told his son after he hung up the phone.

And the 9 year old did sense a twist of Christmas when his dad, a pot-bellied typically jolly guy with a graying beard, hauled in a mesh bag full of mitts and equipment and flopped it on the living room floor in front of the TV.

Through the first three innings they re-strung and oiled-up gloves. Every time Felix Hernandez through his yo-yo curve the dad would punch the pocket of whichever glove he was working on and reflect on a similar slower pitch he used to throw. During the seventh inning stretch, with the Mariners coming to bat up 6-0, they stepped out to play catch.

While dressing, the father told his son a story about him and his friend starting outdoor training in March, “… Nice and easy, just to remind the muscles, get the motion. Before the snow’s gone you’re feeling strong.”

So caught up in picturing his dad, the young hard-throwing righty playing catch in the snow in the past, the boy forgot to put on his jacket. His dad wore a T-shirt. Both shivered once they stepped outside. 25 degrees, a cold breeze. When the boy mentioned running in for his jacket, the dad said, “No. You’ll be fine in no time. Your body warms up warming up.”

The driveway was too icy so they threw in the street, sidewalk to sidewalk. Their arms were rusty and the ball kept sailing wide or bounced by them. Landing in the snow over and over the ball got damp. “That’s okay, that’s good,” the dad said as he set his curveball grip on the ice-chip-pricked ball. “It’s good to throw a heavy ball this time of year.” His curve bounced in the middle of the street and skipped into the snow way left of his son. Something in the old pitcher’s shoulder seemed to slide or slip, and as if he were competing in a game in the past he scolded himself for throwing a curveball so early. “C’mon, Pitch. Discipline. Wasted the elevator, it’s gone for the game.”

The boy’s attractive teacher lived on the same street and she happened to drive by when the boy trotted back to the curb. The teacher shook her head. The boy waved and smirked in that coy flirty manner of young boys and threw the ball back. His dad went to throw a slow pitch and stopped because of the pain. Like a pitching coach, the son cautioned, “that’s a good first day,” and they headed inside.

The A’s were down to their final strike. When the batter swung through a filthy curveball, the boy cheered excessively and went to give his dad a hard high-five. The humbled former pitcher weakly raised his uninjured non-pitching arm for his son to smack.

The next day both the father and son had to stay home sick with legitimate fevers, no doubt caught yesterday from playing catch outside underdressed. After eating a late lunch of chicken soup, the dad, now entirely committed to the role of mentor and coach, easily convinced his son to have a short catch outside, saying, “It’s good to exercise when you’re sick. We’ll bundle up.” They had a short short-toss. The dad had to flip the ball back underhand with his left hand since his right was not right. They made a point of going back inside a good hour before the hour that the teacher had driven by yesterday. They caught a brief energy boost from the cold fresh air, then crashed. They slept through the late afternoon Mariners game, dinner and the night.

Sunk in deep sleep, the dad dreamed of a healthy ancient version of himself (500 years old) sweating profusely in outer space hurling freezing fragments of space rock that hurtled (sank cut curved sped) and hit the center of the sun strike zone every time; the boy dreamed he was suckling from his teacher’s bosom, one nipple issued swirled ice cream like a soft serve machine and the other dealt a stream of root beer. When he lifted his hands to touch her ‘hot apples,’ (his dreamer had dubbed them) her breasts became baseballs and the teacher morphed into a leafless withered tree. The baseballs, damp cold and heavy like the ball they had played catch with, promptly rotted to mushy apples.

Sean Ulman, a pickleball enthusiast, hit three free throws with no time left to force OT in a 5th grade Rec basketball game which his team went on to win. 17 years later he replicated the 3-shot feat in a game of Beer Pong but lost the 1cup playoff.  'Pennant Fever Pennance' is an excerpt from his long ongoing novel about Seward Alaska and Art. Other excerpts can be found at Thieves Jargon, Emprise Review and the2ndhand.