Cover Story: Third-place winner: Dixie youth



Robbie wore the Stars and Bars with pride. The insignia, patched neatly on the sleeve of his “youth-large” uniform, was embossed with a baseball floating at the nexus of the St. Andrew’s Cross. Robbie, unaware of the baggage accompanying the symbol, strode to the plate with an air of confidence. At age 11, he was much too young to recognize his role as a walking contradiction; a black child rising above his peers on the podium of an organization waving the Rebel flag. Digging in to face his opposition, Robbie mistook the motivations of a shirtless heckler’s catcalls as purely baseball-related.

Known as “Meat” to his teammates, Robbie loved sports, especially baseball. The fields of competition provided a welcome oasis, far away from the home life of 13 Perry Street. He was an athlete with superior tools, bigger and stronger than most his age.

“Strike one!” Before Robbie could react, the white pill whizzed past his frozen semblance. Jared, the grizzled four-year veteran of the Dixie Youth baseball Cubs, wasted no time in claiming an advantage. Having faced one another several times during the regular season, Robbie knew Jared’s modus operandi: fastball, curveball, fastball. Thus far Jared had held true to form. Robbie backed out to gather his thoughts.

Dissecting an opposing pitcher’s strategy came much easier to Robbie than defeating the caste system in place at the Perry Street housing project. He took refuge in the competition of youth sports. It was there that he gained acceptance from his peers. “Meat” was treated as royalty on an otherwise non-descript Mets team.

“Milky.” “Yella.” “Wanna-be.” Monikers that replaced “Meat” as Robbie’s field-of-play shifted from the ballpark to his home and school. Robbie was afflicted with a light complexion, and academic success rivaled that of skin-tone as the leading accelerant for sparking verbal assaults in the Perry Street projects. Robbie’s mother feared that he would soon succumb to the negativity and hopelessness encompassing Perry Street, falling into cahoots with the local “Folks” gang or becoming disinterested with life in general. To that point, Robbie had hurdled his naysayers and their prejudices to become an all-A student with a charming personality to boot. The locals’ daily taunts, however, were chipping away at the foundation his mother had fought so hard to reinforce.

Guessing curveball, Robbie shifted his weight to his back foot, hoping to avoid a premature reaction to Jared’s deceptive out-pitch. As he patiently raised his front toe in anticipation of the expected breaking ball, another fastball zipped by Robbie for strike two. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, disgusted with his sloth-like reaction.

Meat knew that no matter the result, this plate appearance would be his season’s last. His Mets were trailing 4-3 in the league championship’s final inning. While the season’s end meant something different for each kid (and parent), it signified misery for Robbie. The distraction of sport would give way to the constant picking and prodding suffered at the hands of his classmates and neighbors.

Absolute panic gripped Robbie’s limbs as he prepped to face the impending 0-2 pitch from his rival. Jared had baffled him with two straight fastballs, and Robbie had no idea what pitch to expect next. Raising and winding, Jared released a pitch that appeared on a collision course with Robbie’s helmet. Frightened by the approaching projectile, Robbie bailed. As he turned to duck, Robbie noticed a tiny circle forming at the incoming baseball’s center, the tell-tale sign of a tightly spun curveball.

This recognition was too late, as the ball broke directly over the plate for strike three. Robbie’s heart dropped with the pitch, his season’s work finished. Conciliatory pats on the back followed the dejected 11-year-old to his seat at the end of the bench. These assurances did little, though, to mute the screams of defeat encircling Robbie’s conscience.

Down to the game’s final two outs, Blake lumbered to the plate as the Mets’ best chance for tying the score with one swing. A ridiculously large figure juxtaposed with most 12-year-olds, Blake was a menacing presence. His swings produced all-or-nothing results; the ball either traveled into the great beyond for a homerun or, as was more often the case, into the catcher’s mitt for a strike, the swing-and-miss producing a gale of epic proportions. Failures at the plate sent the ill-tempered giant into an infant-like tantrum, complete with helmet tossing and bat slinging. Blake had his father to thank for the wonderful disposition.

Suspended from coaching little-league two years prior for assaulting an umpire, Blake’s dad yelled advice from the stands while gripping the fence with white-knuckle ferocity. Blake recognized the grip all too well, the deep-hued bruises hidden beneath his uniform serving as a painful reminder. A homerun now and Blake would be his father’s pride and joy, an out and he would be the bane of his father’s existence and the target of his uncontrollable rage. Partially ignoring this threat, Blake posited a sneer at Jared in hopes of intimidating his foe. Jared laughed to himself, thinking, “What a stupid lard-ass. This guy is getting nothing but breaking balls. Moron.”

Leaving Jared’s hand, the first pitch initially looked to be headed right down Peachtree. The junior-Bunyan swung his weapon mightily. Blake’s eyes raised toward the outfield wall in expectation of the ball sailing over it, but he felt no meeting of bat and ball. The pitch had curved outside and into the dirt, leaving Blake looking utterly foolish. Blake felt his father’s grip tighten on the chain-link fence.

The 12-year-old man-child stepped out of the batter’s box, sharpening his focus on the coach’s instructions, yet keeping an eye on his father’s actions. Three practice swings later, Blake hopped back into the box. “Don’t swing at the curve in the dirt,” he implored himself, steadfast in his determination not to look silly this time. The second pitch again looked to be headed for the heart of the plate, but Blake hesitated in pulling the trigger. Although Jared intended the ball to break into the dirt once more, the baseball refused Jared’s commands. By the time Blake realized this miscalculation, it was too late for profit. The hesitation resulted in strike two.

This time Blake’s embarrassment was parlayed into various complaints directed at the umpire. “Are you crazy! That ball was outside!” Blake also spouted a few obscenities, but the umpire chose to ignore them rather than eject Blake from the game. He was familiar with Blake’s parental issues, placing blame on the father rather than the child. The umpire entreated Blake to pipe down and step back for a moment.

Unsure who to berate, Blake’s father cursed aloud, morphing ordinary curse words into striking phrases heard neither before nor after that day. The bourbon that fueled his fury was working overtime. Never one to enjoy a ballgame without imbibing, Blake’s father had consumed his share of spirits that afternoon. And Bob’s share. And Jimbo’s share.

At one time embarrassed by his father’s frequent outbursts, Blake now took them as warnings of ass-kickings to come.

Fear hovered above Blake’s upper-class suburban home. Failure, in even the most inane daily activity, was unacceptable to his father. The youth had become accustomed to being struck for seemingly harmless acts, like spilling a glass of milk or sneezing in the middle of “Cops.” His father would often arrive home from a “late night at the office.” Reeking of cheap whiskey and even cheaper women, he would saunter in the door. The path of violence would begin with Blake’s mother, moving next to Blake’s 13-year-old sister, and finally settling on Blake. The remnants of this storm were always evident the next morning: overturned tables, holes in the walls and bloodstained clothing tumbling quietly in the wash.

Recent developments, however, had Blake pondering retribution for his father’s sins. A few weeks prior, Blake’s mother spent two nights in Raleigh wooing clients. On the second night of his mother’s absence, Blake had a terrible game versus the Rockies, striking out three times. Driven home by a teammate’s parents, Blake entered his home expecting an immediate slap for his pathetic performance. What he encountered, however, was an eerie silence. Blake wandered the downstairs halls, finding no one. Approaching the stairwell, he heard what sounded like muffled cries emanating from upstairs. Blake slowly ascended the stairs, attempting to get a better read on the noise’s source. Blake turned to his left, apprehensively acknowledging the desperate whimpers escaping his sister’s slightly opened bedroom doorway. Intermingled with the cries was the slow, steady creak of her wrought iron bed frame. “Shut-up and keep still,” his father’s unmistakable drawl threatened from within the bedroom’s opaque confines. Blake retreated to the wine cellar, shrinking from the unspeakable horror being perpetrated upon his sister.

His brain awash with fear and retribution, Blake stepped back into the batter’s box. Clouded with anger and resentment, the next pitch was the furthest thing from Blake’s mind. Instead of playing to win, he was playing not to lose. This emotional and physical burden left Blake no chance of hitting Jared’s third curveball, a wicked bender that spun over the outside corner. The ball’s break burned like salt being slowly deposited into Blake’s wounds, drifting lightly past Blake’s futilely swung bat for strike three.

Sniffles turned to sobs, which soon turned to anguished howls. Blake was reduced to a blubbering behemoth. His cries were not those of disappointment for failing his teammates. The tears reflected the hopelessness of the evening to come. His father’s scalding stare did nothing to alleviate Blake’s worries.

Taylor shuffled to the plate representing his team’s last chance, much to the chagrin of his coach. The weakest link in the Mets’ batting order, Taylor quietly adopted his coach’s pessimism in assessing the chances of wrenching the team from defeat’s clutches. Dixie Youth league rules required that each kid play one full inning per game, a violation’s consequence being a forfeit of the game.

“Stupid frickin’ rule,” pined the Mets’ coach, clenching his teeth while bitterly regretting his decision to draft Taylor three months prior. “Taylor make sure the pitch is a strike. Don’t swing unless it’s a strike!” The coach prayed silently to no particular deity, “Please, please, please don’t let him swing at the ball.”

Taylor would much rather have been reading a book or organizing his comic collection. Athletics were not his forte. He took no pleasure in the repeated failures suffered during his forays into the world of sports. Basketball, football, soccer, baseball, ping-pong, tiddly-winks, it was of no matter. Any exercise requiring hand-eye coordination or any sort of physical skill was an exercise in futility. The poor sap could not even peddle a bicycle without the specter of disaster looming close by.

“You’re gonna K, fag-boy,” beckoned a teenage-hooligan observing the action with obvious allegiances to Taylor’s opponents. That sentiment was the sole reason Taylor donned the Mets (sponsored by RMI Insurance) uniform. He preferred neatly pressed pants and abhorred the dirt and grime associated with youth sport. Taylor’s parents publicly hypothesized that forcing their son into athletic participation would boost the youngster’s confidence. Privately, their goal was twofold: 1) Taylor abandoning his strange dalliances and adopting hobbies more akin a “normal” 12-year-old boy, and 2) silencing the Perrier-cooler talk concerning Taylor’s sexuality which permeated the Five-Oaks Country Club.

This parental strategy, however, had the reverse effect. Taylor instead resented his parents for not accepting him as-is. Taylor especially despised the country club functions he was mandated to attend. Required to make small-talk with the female offspring of other local dignitaries, Taylor’s return from these soirees resembled the Spanish Inquisition. “Wasn’t Mary-Lee cute as pie?” “What was wrong with Allison Beaumont? You know she likes you, but you hardly said a word to her?” Taylor himself was uncertain as to the reasons for his disinterest in the opposite sex. He simply knew that he preferred the company of Anne Rice and the X-Men to the senseless jibber-jabber of pre-pubescent girls.

Numb to the agony of athletic impotence, Taylor stepped in to face the executioner. Too many times had Taylor resisted his fate, convincing himself that he would finally show everyone he could succeed against superior talent. Too many times had Taylor instead been reduced to the visage of a wounded gazelle, meekly flinging his bat in attempts to combat his predator’s overpowering fastballs. His thinking was now “just make an effort, get it out of the way, get the heck out of this wretched-smelling uniform.”

Jared peered into the Cubs dugout, awaiting the pitch-call from his father/coach. A brilliant tactician among little-league managers, Jared’s father knew Taylor to be no match for his son’s fastball. Both Jared and his father, however, remembered the blown no-hitter versus the Mets earlier in the season, compliments of Taylor Riedelhoover and an ill-timed trick-pitch experiment. Jared’s father signaled for a fastball, followed by a mouthing of the words “and nothing else.” Jared fully understood the reasoning.

Striking out this batter would cap a dominant season for Jared and his teammates. The Cubs had been on the losing end of a game only twice the entire summer, both times with Jared absent from the mound. Little did Jared know that he was seeing the peak of his athletic prowess at age 12. Even then, he was not the best athlete among like-aged boys. Early maturity, above-average coordination and a keen intellect catapulted Jared to the pinnacle of little-league success. His uncanny grasp of the game and its nuances would spark numerous arguments with future coaches. For the moment, however, his disparate strengths converged on the brink of a championship.

Targeting the catcher’s mitt, positioned slightly over the outside corner of home plate, Jared delivered. Ball one, outside. Taylor remained motionless, making no offer at Jared’s first pitch.

“He’s not going to swing at anything, just throw strikes,” grumbled Jared. His teammates concurred, pleading with their pitcher to simply hurl the next pitch through the strike zone. The Cubs’ third basemen questioned Taylor’s man/boyhood, calling him a sissy while insisting Taylor was too scared to lift the bat off his narrow shoulders.

Jared wiped the sweat from his thick brow, regrouping for the next effort. More than anything, he wanted this victory for his father. Beloved among all parents whose children he coached, Jared’s dad elevated the role of fun above winning at the little-league level. He shirked the standard one-inning rule, assuring that every player would play at least two innings per game. The Mets’ skipper was the chief proponent, among little-league coaches, of the theory that Jared’s father was tilting at windmills and would never lead a team to the promise land. Jared’s father was aware of such rumblings, and that year’s success had provided an affirmation of sorts. Recognizing a victory to be a permanent muzzle upon his detractors’ mouths, Jared’s dad went so far as to forego his pre-game ritual of downing Busch tall-boys.

The second pitch’s aim was true, resulting in strike one. Jared exhaled with relief at his reclamation of control. Taylor’s expression never changed. Looking again to his father for pitching advice, Jared received the fastball sign once more. “No junk, just get it over.” Aligning the seams with his fingers, Jared tensed and delivered.

The ball careened toward the mitt, provided additional giddy-up by Jared’s spiking adrenaline. The pitch struck its target, a deep pop resonating from the collision of ball and glove. “Strike two!” Taylor outwardly feigned disappointment at his failure to swing, inwardly relieved that only one more pitch stood between this torture called sport and the opportunity to shower off the season’s grime. A tear had already formed in the recess of Jared’s eye, knowing a win to lay but one pitch ahead. An overly emotional child, Jared had come to expect the waterworks at times like this. Jared bore down upon his target, coiled and released the last pitch of his pre-teen days.

The third strike was as expected; fastball right down the middle, Taylor admiring the pitch as it passed by his unmoving facade. The Cubs team rushed the mound, jumping, hugging, high-fiving, as jubilant 12-year-olds do. Jared and his father embraced, sharing the spoils of hard work and a bit of luck.

Robbie sat frozen in the Mets dugout, reluctant to accept the season’s end and a return to life without baseball.

Blake searched for his father, preparing for the unavoidable tongue-and-belt lashing to come. He finally spotted pops by the family truck, a cherry-faced monster still spouting expletives at the hurriedly departing umpire. He turned and faced Blake, punched the hood of his vanity plate adorned F-150, and commanded Blake to “get in the F-ing truck!”

Taylor ignored the crying and gnashing of teeth, calmly gathering his equipment and neatly placing everything in his gym bag. Hopefully for the last time, he thought. His parents comforted him, uttering blatant lies about his “good effort.” Taylor needed no comforting. The end of the season was comfort enough.

Charles P. Boring is an assistant district attorney with the Coweta Judicial Circuit in Newnan. He lives in Midtown with his wife and an inordinate amount of student-loan debt.

For more winning stories, click a title below:

First-place winner: [http://atlanta.creativeloafing.com/2003-01-01/cover2.html|Mysterium tremendum
?Second-place winner: [http://atlanta.creativeloafing.com/2003-01-01/cover3.html|The kid who ate paste
?Finalist: [http://atlanta.creativeloafing.com/2003-01-01/cover5.html|The death of the Venus’ flytrap
?Finalist: [http://atlanta.creativeloafing.com/2003-01-01/cover6.html|Please read!
?Finalist: [http://atlanta.creativeloafing.com/2003-01-01/cover7.html|Between brick and drywall
?Finalist: Behaving ourselves
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