The Pitching Machine
When I was 10 years old, I was the worst player on our baseball team. I batted last—14th out of 14 players—and struck out every single time for the whole season. On my march back to the dugout, my teammates muttered “good effort,” but only because the coach made them say it. When the coach wasn't around, they told me what they really thought: that I should commit suicide.
When baseball season mercifully came to an end, I resolved that next year I wouldn't be humiliated again. I needed to practice my hitting during the off-season, so I begged my parents to buy me a pitching machine..
“Just have a friend pitch to you,” my father said. Then he realized he had accidentally broken the unspoken rule that we didn't talk about the fact that I had no friends. To escape of the awkward silence, he agreed to buy it for me.
The men from the sporting goods store set it up in our back yard under the palm trees. They set up the metal frame and then hung the nets, making the batting cage. The pitching machine sat on a metal tripod. I set baseballs into the plastic slide that brought them down one-by-one to two spinning wheels, one on top of the other. The wheels spit out the balls. The speed could be adjusted, but I set it to the slowest setting. I would work my way up. By baseball season, I hoped to be hitting Major League speed fastballs.
I spent all my free time out there in the batting cage, swinging at balls from the batting machine. Every 8 seconds, a ball shot out at me. I tried to keep my eye on it, to keep my hips loose, and my elbow straight. I mostly just connecting with air, but did manage to make contact with a couple, tipping them off to the side. When the machine was out of balls, I gathered them up and dropped them back in and repeated the process. For the next few weeks, I spent all my free time in the yard.
One day after school I sat on the bus, alone as usual, when someone sat down next to me. It was Evan Barski, the most popular kid in my grade. He had been on my baseball team, batted cleanup, and led the league in home runs, RBIs, and batting average. Needless to say, he was always picked first in gym class. I wondered why he sat next to me and realized he probably wanted my seat, so I should stand up and give it to him.
“You have a batting cage,” he said. It wasn't a question. “I'm coming over.”
My powers of speech failed me, so I just nodded. I couldn't believe it. The coolest kid in school was coming over to my house. I felt the other kids staring at the two of us, and I brimmed with pride.
He didn't speak to me the whole bus ride. When we arrived at my house, we went straight to the backyard and the pitching machine. Fortunately my parents were still at work and not there to embarrass me.
I loaded the balls into the pitching machine and pressed the button. He swung the aluminum bat at them, cracking out what looked to be home runs. When the machine was empty I ran around, picking up the balls and putting them back in the machine. He didn't offer to help. He also didn't offer to let me have a turn at bat, but that was fine with me. I needed more time to become a good hitter. I preferred to practice alone.
After hitting a few hundred baseballs, Evan dropped the bat and walked out of the batting cage. He pulled an orange off of my mother's orange tree. I realized I should have offered him a snack. He must have been hungry. I was a bad host, probably because I wasn't used to guests. He pulled off one orange after another, dropping them onto the front of his T-shirt, which he used to cradle them. No wonder he was a star athlete: he ate fruit for a snack instead of Doritos and Hostess Twinkies. I worried my mother would notice the absence of fruit on the tree—she donated them to a local food bank—but I didn't say anything, fearing that Evan would think I was uncool.
He came back into the batting cage, dropped the oranges in the pitching machine, and picked up the aluminum bat.
“Push the button,” he said.
I knew I would probably get in big trouble for this, but I pressed the button.
An orange shot out of the machine. Evan swung the bat and made contact. The orange exploded, splashing juice everywhere, all over us. Evan laughed and readied himself to swing at the next orange. I forced myself to smile, wondering what I could tell my mother when she found the pulverized remains of her oranges.
When the machine was empty, we went and gathered more oranges. He gave them the same treatment. When the orange tree was bare, we moved onto the lemon tree. Soon I was covered with sticky juice. Next came the pomegranates. Little red seed splattered everywhere when the bat hit the fruit. Then we picked up fallen coconuts and dropped them in the machine.
When the first coconut slid down the ramp and touched the wheels, the wheels stopped suddenly. The coconut was too big. But the wheels kept trying to turn. There was a hissing sound and smoke rose from the hinges. Suddenly there was a loud bang and the wheels stopped moving. The machine was broken.
Evan laughed. “So long, loser,” he said. He dropped the bat, walked out of the batting cage and out of the backyard. I stayed where I was, staring at the busted pitching machine.
Tears filled my eyes and I felt a heavy anchor in my chest. Covered in sticky citrus juice, I realized I was stupid to think anyone liked me or would ever like me. I was a disgusting, despicable person. I swung the bat at the pitching machine, knocking it down into the grass among bits of pulverized citrus pulp. Then, through a haze of tears, I smashed the aluminum bat down into the broken pitching machine over and over again.
When baseball season mercifully came to an end, I resolved that next year I wouldn't be humiliated again. I needed to practice my hitting during the off-season, so I begged my parents to buy me a pitching machine..
“Just have a friend pitch to you,” my father said. Then he realized he had accidentally broken the unspoken rule that we didn't talk about the fact that I had no friends. To escape of the awkward silence, he agreed to buy it for me.
The men from the sporting goods store set it up in our back yard under the palm trees. They set up the metal frame and then hung the nets, making the batting cage. The pitching machine sat on a metal tripod. I set baseballs into the plastic slide that brought them down one-by-one to two spinning wheels, one on top of the other. The wheels spit out the balls. The speed could be adjusted, but I set it to the slowest setting. I would work my way up. By baseball season, I hoped to be hitting Major League speed fastballs.
I spent all my free time out there in the batting cage, swinging at balls from the batting machine. Every 8 seconds, a ball shot out at me. I tried to keep my eye on it, to keep my hips loose, and my elbow straight. I mostly just connecting with air, but did manage to make contact with a couple, tipping them off to the side. When the machine was out of balls, I gathered them up and dropped them back in and repeated the process. For the next few weeks, I spent all my free time in the yard.
One day after school I sat on the bus, alone as usual, when someone sat down next to me. It was Evan Barski, the most popular kid in my grade. He had been on my baseball team, batted cleanup, and led the league in home runs, RBIs, and batting average. Needless to say, he was always picked first in gym class. I wondered why he sat next to me and realized he probably wanted my seat, so I should stand up and give it to him.
“You have a batting cage,” he said. It wasn't a question. “I'm coming over.”
My powers of speech failed me, so I just nodded. I couldn't believe it. The coolest kid in school was coming over to my house. I felt the other kids staring at the two of us, and I brimmed with pride.
He didn't speak to me the whole bus ride. When we arrived at my house, we went straight to the backyard and the pitching machine. Fortunately my parents were still at work and not there to embarrass me.
I loaded the balls into the pitching machine and pressed the button. He swung the aluminum bat at them, cracking out what looked to be home runs. When the machine was empty I ran around, picking up the balls and putting them back in the machine. He didn't offer to help. He also didn't offer to let me have a turn at bat, but that was fine with me. I needed more time to become a good hitter. I preferred to practice alone.
After hitting a few hundred baseballs, Evan dropped the bat and walked out of the batting cage. He pulled an orange off of my mother's orange tree. I realized I should have offered him a snack. He must have been hungry. I was a bad host, probably because I wasn't used to guests. He pulled off one orange after another, dropping them onto the front of his T-shirt, which he used to cradle them. No wonder he was a star athlete: he ate fruit for a snack instead of Doritos and Hostess Twinkies. I worried my mother would notice the absence of fruit on the tree—she donated them to a local food bank—but I didn't say anything, fearing that Evan would think I was uncool.
He came back into the batting cage, dropped the oranges in the pitching machine, and picked up the aluminum bat.
“Push the button,” he said.
I knew I would probably get in big trouble for this, but I pressed the button.
An orange shot out of the machine. Evan swung the bat and made contact. The orange exploded, splashing juice everywhere, all over us. Evan laughed and readied himself to swing at the next orange. I forced myself to smile, wondering what I could tell my mother when she found the pulverized remains of her oranges.
When the machine was empty, we went and gathered more oranges. He gave them the same treatment. When the orange tree was bare, we moved onto the lemon tree. Soon I was covered with sticky juice. Next came the pomegranates. Little red seed splattered everywhere when the bat hit the fruit. Then we picked up fallen coconuts and dropped them in the machine.
When the first coconut slid down the ramp and touched the wheels, the wheels stopped suddenly. The coconut was too big. But the wheels kept trying to turn. There was a hissing sound and smoke rose from the hinges. Suddenly there was a loud bang and the wheels stopped moving. The machine was broken.
Evan laughed. “So long, loser,” he said. He dropped the bat, walked out of the batting cage and out of the backyard. I stayed where I was, staring at the busted pitching machine.
Tears filled my eyes and I felt a heavy anchor in my chest. Covered in sticky citrus juice, I realized I was stupid to think anyone liked me or would ever like me. I was a disgusting, despicable person. I swung the bat at the pitching machine, knocking it down into the grass among bits of pulverized citrus pulp. Then, through a haze of tears, I smashed the aluminum bat down into the broken pitching machine over and over again.
posted by Benjamin Fishbein at Wednesday, December 23, 2009
2 Comments:
Ben Achi,
You write beautifully. I hope to God, that was not a true story. I was waiting the entire time for the silver lining. It takes balls to write a story without the need to gratify your readers. I love your writing and wish you the utmost success. I look forward to reading your first published novel. One thing I had learned in one of my high school English classes, was that for a story to stimulate interest, it must contain an element of conflict. What I think you successfully do in this story is create conflict not necessarily in the characters of your story, but rather in the mind of the reader; you exquisitely provoke the reader to wait for the denouement that is not forthcoming and you awaken with the reader an existential dilemma that forces him to wonder whether he would have acted the same way as that pitiful boy who had been "used" and "duped" so badly. I look forward to reading a lot more of your literature!!!
Your blog keeps getting better and better! Your older articles are not as good as newer ones you have a lot more creativity and originality now keep it up!
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