"Hey Gay-o, go get me a beer" orders a chunky guy laying face down on the training table as my boss massages his cramped calf muscles after the first Spring practice.
"Yeah, make it a St. Pauli Girl" quips one of the pitchers soaking his sore shoulder in the ice tub.
It's the first Spring training practice on JM Field and is for pitchers and catchers only. But it's not the first time my ball has been deflated by American baseball.
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"OK Joe, read the ball off the bat" shouted Coach Nardello before hitting a flyball toward me in right field.
It was a bright but chilly afternoon in early April with a stiff westerly wind blustering across LaMonte Field. The multi-purpose field was nestled beneath the greening trees of First Watchung Mountain to the north. Our baseball diamond was wedged behind the eastern endzone of the football field that was enclosed by a cinder track circling behind the backstop and cutting across right field.
As the ball flew off the bat I leapt forward onto the cinders and then scrambled back as it skipped off the fingers of my short glove and bounced into the chain link fence, disappearing into the overgrown ivy. I frantically rooted around until noticing the coach waving me in.
"As an outfielder, you'll make a pretty good base runner" he chuckled, his beer belly bouncing with each guffaw. "Now get over there on second and be ready to tag up when I hit it to Gubi in center."
To my puzzled look he just shook his head and grumbled "stay on the bag until he catches it, then run like hell to third."
"Hey Coach, we're about to start the 880" called the track coach walking over along the left field foul line. "Can you keep it in the infield until they're done running?"
"Our first conference game is tomorrow" is all Coach Nardello said out loud, but I heard him grumble "God damn track team" as the other coach walked away.
A gun fired and the distance runners headed around the track into the stiff wind. One of my sophomore classmates was already out in front as the pack rumbled along the the left field foul line. Stu Woody was an amazingly fast and equally confident runner who had broken many course records in the Fall cross country season. He rounded the backstop and sprinted across right field, the now tailwind propelling him farther in front.
A big black bird zagged across the field as Nicky Nard tossed up a ball, cocked the bat back into his left handed swing, and launched one into the wind. Gubi took off, glancing over his left shoulder as he ran toward the trajectory of the ball, runner, and crow. Two of them collided in a tangled heap as the other runners dodged past.
I decided right then and there to report for track practice the next day.
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"Forget it Cuz" growls Tony the trainer as I'm headed out toward the concession stand. "This homo here can't order us around just because he's the player-coach. Just go get me that stack of towels."
"Ah, you guys are no fun" moans the catcher, turning onto his side from under a little white towel.
I see who he is and jump back a step. The coach and catcher for the Manville Minitemen really is my former Bound Brook teammate Paul Paulino.
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