by John Keenan
Gary McQueen was one of those early bloomers, a big kid who was more man than boy; and he had the body hair to prove it. He looked like a teen-wolf. He was probably the only twelve-year-old in the league who needed to shave everyday. Our bench took to calling Gary – ‘Hairy’. We took turns trying to top each other’s jokes.
“I heard Hairy McQueen fell asleep on the floor and his mom thought he was a bear-skin rug.”
“I heard that during bear hunting season… his mom won’t let him go outside the house.”
“What did Big Foot say to Hairy McQueen in the woods? Son!”
“AAAAAAWOOOOO!” One of our kids howled like a werewolf serenading a full moon and we all laughed – too loud as it turned out. Gary looked over and sneered, striking fear in every boy on the bench. As for the jokes, they were told in whispers; the snickering muffled so as to not reach the mound. Even big Ed was scared of Gary ‘Hairy’ McQueen. Anger the bear-boy and he might just put a fastball in you ear.
Hairy was throwing smoke that day; he mowed down almost everyone we sent to the plate. Except for a cheapie hit by Bobby, our shortstop, almost everyone struck out.
My superstitions didn’t stop when the game started. I had a strict routine I always followed. It was the best Steve Garvey imitation you ever saw. He had all these wonderful mannerisms that made him look different from all the other major-leaguers. I emulated every one on opening day, so I had to do it now.
When my turn came I walked to the plate calm and confident like I owned the field. Outside the batters box, I took one full practice swing; it was more like a golf swing. I hated golf, but that’s what Steve Garvey did – so I did it too. I asked the ump for time and then I meticulously manicured the dirt in the right hander’s side of the batter’s box – pushing a little here with my left foot, filling in a little hole there with my right – like a well-tended garden. Then I settled in and tapped the plate with my bat – my Steve Garvey model wood bat. Garvey had this little shrug that he did and I did it too, but it was more with just the front shoulder – then I tugged on the jersey at the neck to keep everything loose. But the signature part of his batting stance, therefore of mine, was the bat movement just before the pitch – so mechanical, so deliberate, stiff yet powerful. It was more like the careful measuring swing of an ax-man finding his spot on a tree. I pulled the bat back and did it two more times, each time stopping right over the plate, the point of expected contact, as if I was giving the pitcher a target, daring him to throw it there. Now, I was ready. I wiggled my fingers on the bat handle and rocked back and forth, shifting my weight from foot to foot.
I made eye contact with Hairy on the mound; like boxers in a prefight stare-down, we matched each other’s intensity – both refusing to blink.
It was time:
Hairy McQueen wound up and threw a laser beam in the exact spot I warned him not to: Pop! The catcher’s mitt cracked like a tree limb snapping in a windstorm. The awesome power of the pitch caused me to freeze, just like I did at the sound of Monica’s voice an hour earlier.
“Strike one!” The ump yelled.
Sheeeeze! I thought. That was fast!
As the catcher tossed it back, I resumed my Steve Garvey impersonation with another few half-swings, again daring him to hit my spot, but this time with far less confidence.
Hairy wound up and unleashed a bullet. The pitch veered inside, but I was ready; I whipped my hands through as quick as I could, keeping my head down, my eye on the ball, just like my hero was famous for doing on every swing.
“Crack!”
I felt a weird stinging sensation, like I stuck my hands in a hornet’s nest. The bat flew out of my hands toward the infield. I knew I hit the ball, but I didn’t know where. I ran to first, but I was worried that the wayward bat would hit someone and hurt them.
“Foul ball!” The ump yelled.
When I stopped running I realized the bat handle was still in my left hand – but only the handle. I looked toward the mound and saw the barrel of my bat rolling to a stop on the infield dirt, like the last breath of a dying soldier on the battlefield; reality sunk in.
Big Foot had just sawed my Steve Garvey bat in half. I walked in a daze toward the barrel. I scooped it up while fighting back tears. My trusty cohort was dead. I carried him in my arms back to the dugout and laid him down in the corner.
I was in shock, I don’t remember picking out a new bat, I should have been looking to avenge my fallen friend, but I believed in omens. I was inconsolably depressed about it. I stepped back into the box in some sort of half-trance and I forgot all about my routine. The bat’s rubber grip felt weird in my hands; the metal felt strange on my shoulder – a place it wouldn’t leave the rest of the at bat. I don’t remember much about the next pitch. I know I didn’t swing; I heard the ump yell strike three and then I moped back to the dugout in a daze and began a weeklong pout.
The rest of the game was a blur. I hardly remember my next at bat either. Three straight pitches: Zip – Zip – Zip! I swung through them all. I don’t know if I swung over or under them. I just know I missed. Hairy McQueen threw a two-hit shutout against us. The undefeated season was over and so was my hitting streak.
It would be the only time I ever struck out twice in one game!
Riding home, I thought about how far I went to keep the superstition intact. I destroyed our hall closet; I broke into my friend’s house; I mugged our paperboy’s little brother; I ate half-eaten fish off the sidewalk and a Ding Dong that I ran over with my bike.
Now, my streak was toast; my beloved bat, a Christmas present from my father, was in pieces in my bike basket – murdered by the son of Big Foot.
Pedaling up the hill I wondered: What went wrong? Then a thought occurred to me that made everything make sense. I should have known my twelve-game hitting streak was doomed.
Thirteen was an unlucky number for me. The Jinx got me.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by John Kelly Keenan
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