The players stand along the base lines holding caps over their presumed hearts as a diminutive woman with a tower of dark wavy hair stands on homeplate and belts out the Star Spangled Banner.
"And now a few words from the owner of the Manville Minutemen" booms the announcer as the roar from the fans dies down and the players reposition hats, shuffling from one foot to the other.
"Welcome to our beautiful new stadium" exclaims a short guy as he removes his glasses and wipes them on his tie. "It's my great honor to christen this first professional baseball field of central New Jersey as Sinclair Yard."
From my seat at the outfield edge of the dugout I can see that it's a bottle of Brazilian cachaça that he smashes over a baseball bat held in front of home plate. Then he walks briskly down the third base line shaking the hand of each player before striding into the dugout and plopping onto the bench beside me.
"What do you say we get this show on the road" he laughs as the players either jog out to their positions or shamble into the dugouts, and I'm taken back to the day after that fateful trek to the imbuia.
_______________
"Where is the one who led the Americans to the big tree" called out a pretty woman holding a clipboard as she stood by the side of our soccer field.
We all froze in our tracks, me behind my brother whose 15-year-old body was considerably larger than mine.
"Who wants to know?" demanded Jorge.
"Petrobras has provided a scholarship to go to high school in America."
"It was Joao" he declared, stepping aside and pointing at me. "Joao Nossick of Favela do Pantanal."
_______________
Eddie Cicotte looks sharp throwing his warmup pitches, popping fastballs into Paulino's big catcher's mitt and slicing curves down over the plate.
"Play ball" yells the umpire as the leadoff hitter for the Newark Bears steps to the plate.
The left-handed batter crouches into a low stance and cocks his bat back over his left shoulder. The pitch is a curve ball that doesn't quite break, plunking him in the right hip. He glares at Cicotte while rubbing his hip and hobbling to first base.
The number two hitter positions himself at the rear of the right-hander's batters box and digs his right foot into the dirt. Paulino flashes a single finger down between his legs and toward the batter, positioning his mitt as a target at the lower inside of the strike zone. The fastball misses low and tight, caroming off the glove and skidding to the backstop. The base runner sprinting to second base sees Paulino frantically looking around for the ball and turns the corner, heading to third for a two-base past ball.
Cicotte starts his next windup and settles into the stretch position with pitching hand holding the ball in his glove at the waist and back to the runner taking a short lead off third. He raises the glove to resume the windup but quickly twists toward third.
"Balk" shouts the home plate umpire, waving the runner home from third because Cicotte had interrupted his pitch after the pause.
"Two pitches, no hits, down one" grumbles the owner.
"You'd think they're throwing it" I offer.
"Nah, just a rough start for these two old pros."
"OK boss, I'll go pick coconuts on a slope" I quip.
"That, my friend, might be better than watching this inning" he laughs.
No comments:
Post a Comment