When I was about eleven, I was a good but not great baseball player. I was an exceptional fielder – graceful, even – but only passable at the plate. In hindsight, I imagine much of my problem with hitting was not technique or skill, but confidence. At eleven, I did not believe in most any ability I had in life, hitting emphatically included. I think the only strengths I would have been willing to admit then were scooping up grounders and turning double plays.

All of this said, I was probably about a .280 hitter, which isn’t terrible, especially for an eleven-year-old in a Brooklyn league where foreign-born, over-aged ringers pretty much had the lock on pitching (we had one on our team – a Dominican kid named Pedro who didn’t speak a lick of English and threw so hard that nobody wanted to catch him). But I always felt nervous at the plate, uncertain. I liked running the bases but dreaded actually swinging the bat, and became pretty good at working out walks. That would have been a more important skill if I were fast, but I was not fast. A good, prudent baserunner, but not fast.

I remember a game in May, reaching the final inning around twilight, in which I was 0 for 2, having struck out and grounded out in my first at-bats. I came up with one out and a man on second, and we were down by a few runs. The light was not good for hitting, with shadows sprawling haphazardly across the field, and I took the first pitch on principle. I was hoping for a walk as always, but it was a letters-high strike that seemed to shimmer through the gathering darkness, not just unhittable, but practically unseeable. The next pitch was in the dirt and easy to take – I could see from when it left the kid’s hand it would be low, so I cocked my whole body like I was ready to pounce on it, then made a show of letting it go with disgust, leaning on my front foot and flexing my forearms. After that I fouled one off without thinking – I probably should have let it go, but I didn’t want to look like I was afraid to swing.

All the while, the catcher had maintained that classic patter that catchers do – half intelligible, repeated, meaningless mantras to soothe the pitcher: “Lay it in there lay it there, there ya go, nice and smooth, here we go, here we go,” gentle and regular like the way you rub a crying child’s back to calm him down. I didn’t pay it any mind, not because I was so cool at the plate, but because I was too wound up even to notice. But once they had two strikes on me, the kid started saying, “Easy out, easy out, you got this guy, easy out,” and I knew that he knew that I had made out my first two times to the plate. We were baseball kids and we cared about that stuff and kept track, and tried to remember players not just from inning to inning but from game to game – or that’s what I thought, anyway; I thought the kid had made me for a light-hitting shortstop who was not a threat, and for some reason, in that instant it drove me absolutely crazy. I was not one to look for fights, but I wanted to turn around, drop my bat, and belt the kid.

But just then the pitcher came over his shoulder with the pitch, and right when it was at the top of its arc, still in his fingers and being forced downward and to my right, the last ray of the sun picked out that grass-stained thing like a spotlight in a darkened theater and after that I never lost it. I watched it go from there, hovering in front of left center field, down and across my left shoulder, heading toward the outside part of the plate with a haphazard sort of spin and just glowing. And suddenly, everything was firing on all cylinders: my chest and my shoulders and my legs all got together and brought the bat around like a perfect reflection of the ball, like two dancers running toward each other at breakneck speed from either end of the stage, but you know you’re watching something choreographed, so they’re not going to crash into each other like two dumb kids on a playground, they’re going to spring perfectly into some kind of embrace or harmony. And I met that pitch perfectly, knee-high and an inch in front of the plate, and sent it right back where it came from, up over the pitcher’s right shoulder and four feet above the shortstop, strong and beautiful and unmistakably destined for the gap in left center field, the platonic ideal of a double.

The ball bounced confidently and fast the first time, then lower, and had slowed enough by the time the center fielder reached it that he picked it up barehanded and walked it halfway to second base. A faster runner might have stretched it into a triple, but it didn’t really matter – the run scored, the next batter walked, and then someone grounded into a double play to end the inning and the game. But when that ball jumped off my bat into the darkness, like a scripted answer to what the catcher had said, better than a punch or a sneer or a spitwad or a “fuck you,” I was in baseball heaven.

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A native of Brooklyn, Josh was transplanted first to Boston and later to Central Connecticut, both times by dear love and cruel circumstance. For money, he works as a public defender in the Hartford Juvenile Court. For fun, he rides and tinkers with bicycles, wrestles and tickles his two small sons, and takes photographs of things. In addition to various and sundry legal writings of narrow appeal, he was for some time an editor and contributor at Bostonist.com, a news and culture website, and was briefly catapulted to moderate local fame and significant media coverage as a result of his attempt to photograph all of the front yard religious shrines in the city of Somerville, Mass. He moved away before he could complete the project.

6 responses to “Baseball Heaven”

  1. Richard Cox says:

    Memories like these last a lifetime, don’t they? Makes you wonder it feels like to be Jeter or Jordan or Tiger and do that stuff all the time.

  2. Josh Michtom says:

    One almost wonders if for Jeter and Woods and the like these moments have by now lost some of their magic. I mean, they are so good, so consistently, that the wonder must surely have diminished – not like the aging utility infielder who gets a pinch-hit home run, or that bench player who not long ago made an impossible buzzer beater from three quarters of the way down the court in a college basketball game. Maybe this is why the superstars have to occupy themselves outside the game with adultery, dogfighting, gambling, and the like – the things that are magic for most folks are just ho-hum for them.

  3. Simon Smithson says:

    I wish I knew more about baseball right now. I really do. But I can totally sympathise with the moment. There’s something about hitting that point of just ‘in the zone’ in sports (especially in front of witnesses) that clicks.

    Then again, the way you’ve written this, Josh, I don’t really have to know much about baseball to appreciate it.

    Welcome aboard.

  4. Matt says:

    Nice debut, Josh.

    While I was usually apathetic to team sports as a kid, baseball was the one exception–at least until my parents divorced and there was no one to take me to any games, and my taste for the game waned. It’s been reinvigorated lately, though, and I’m hoping to actually go to a few MLB games once the season starts.

  5. Irene Zion says:

    Isn’t it amazing how these snippets back from our childhood remain with us?
    Nice piece, Josh, and welcome!

  6. Meghan says:

    Great piece, Josh. It really captures that strange age where not knowing your capabilities collides with your confidence.

    And I loved this:
    “like two dancers running toward each other at breakneck speed from either end of the stage, but you know you’re watching something choreographed, so they’re not going to crash into each other like two dumb kids on a playground”

    Good to have you here. It was getting lonely in central Connecticut.

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