LIFE IS LIKE A BASEBALL GAME by Chuck Sims
Dear Mom,
They found my truck.
Except for the thirty-nine dents in the back and the missing Toyota logo, most of it is okay. It runs. But, more on that later.
So, Bonnie and I went to a baseball game, Angels vs A’s. You remember Bonnie. The one you don’t like. Well, it turns out you were right. As you pointed out, she has a volatile temper. I only saw it in action recently.
However, as I told you, she is my muse. She fills me with raw passion. My poetry sings when she reacts to the scene around her.
But I digress.
Back to the baseball game. I love baseball. I go to a park to see a melange of behaviors and scenes that warm my creative juices. Today was no different. Bonnie has no passion for baseball, but she agreed to go this one time. I said I would show her all the crazy things that go on at a typical ball game.
No sooner had we arrived when a guy dressed in his homemade Oakland A’s baseball outfit started running up and down the stairs. Bonnie stared. “These are the types of people you want to mix with?” This was just the beginning.
Our tickets were gifts from an Angel player friend of mine—box seats behind the first base dugout. However, when we arrived someone was already in our seats. I showed them my tickets. We got into an argument. I calmly suggested we call an usher, as I may have made a mistake.
Bonnie exploded. “These are our seats! You can see right there on the tickets. You guys are squatters! Get out. Now.”
Bonnie was effective and, well, quite scary. Sheepishly, the two guys gathered their pens, pencils, score books, and beers and descended to the empty box below us where they set up shop. They placed their beers behind them and settled into keeping score.
I tried to point out that these score-keeping squatter fans were intense. They had red pens for powerful hits, blue for dribblers, and a set of other colors to make the game come alive on their expensive large score books. They even made curved lines to distinguish the shapes of the fly balls. They were totally absorbed in the game. Bonnie rolled her eyes.
We watched the game. Bonnie noticed down the right field line that several girls were leaning over a wall and giggling. They were smiling, laughing, and joking. I explained to Bonnie how extra pitchers sat in the Bull Pen, and the girls flirted with them. She asked, “Why do they call it the Bull Pen?”
“Look how the guy in front of us is using his elaborate score book.” Phew! “See that, Bonnie? He has one of those expensive, spiral bound score books where he can save game after game for his lifetime of watching baseball.”
Again, the penetrating stare.
So, I said my friend should be up to bat soon. That would be exciting. Just then Bonnie knocked over one of the beers, kicking it up and onto the scorebook. The colored lines began to run. The squatters flapped their score sheets, screamed, and jumped up and down.
“Oh man, I’m sorry,” I said, instinctively.
One guy called Bonnie a (well something). Bonnie almost clocked him. I caught her in mid-swing and said, “Let it go.” It seemed like the smart thing to say at the time.
Bonnie erupted. I had never seen her lose it like that. She began to cry and sobbed, “I am not going to get trapped with an idiot, broke, fake artist with no ability to provide support.” She was shaking, crying, and mumbling. I had never seen her come apart like this. “Give me the truck keys. I’m going home.”
“Calm down. Let’s wait until my friend has his at bat.” Apparently, that was not the most clever thing to say.
She stalked out. “Alright. I’ll walk home.”
I countered with, “Here are the keys.”
She grabbed them.
I called, “Look, wait by the truck, and I’ll be out soon.” I hoped she heard me.
It took me a few minutes to recalibrate. I was in crisis. She was out of the stadium in a flash. I was frozen. Scenarios flooded my brain. Nothing was coherent. I looked back to see my friend in the on-deck circle. There were two outs. He may not even bat this inning. I began to slowly climb the stairs. As I reached the exit, I saw Bonnie at the truck. She had something in her hand. I made it to ground level and quickened my pace. I heard a strange thumping sound.
As I approached the truck, I saw her bashing in the driver’s window with my baseball bat. I caught her arms. She threw the bat at me, jumped into the truck, and sped off. I stood there and stared. I loved that truck. I loved Bonnie.
I called some of my friends, not the police. Could they help me find the truck?
Two days passed. They found the truck. It was parked near her brother’s house. I met Bonnie there. She began to cry.
I told her it was okay. I told her I loved her. She told me she was sorry and didn’t know what came over her. I told her it was fine, and she was safe. We hugged. She told me she was pregnant.
So, Mom, we should talk.
See you soon,
Buddy
