Roberto & Me (6 page)

SUNRISE AND I WALKED AROUND THE PERIMETER OF CROSLEY
Field, looking for an open ticket booth. It occurred to me that this was sort of like a date. I was going on my first real date with a girl!

There was crowd noise coming from inside the ballpark. The game must have already begun. The first few ticket booths we walked past were already closed.

“What's the future like?” Sunrise suddenly asked me. “Do you have, like, a jet pack and stuff?”

“A
jet pack
?” I said. “What's a jet pack?”

“You know, one of those things you strap to your back,” Sunrise said. “It's like a backpack with a jet engine in it, and flames shoot out the bottom so you can go flying around. I saw one in a science-fiction movie.”

“No, I don't have one of those,” I said.

I told Sunrise about some of the cool stuff that we
do
have in the twenty-first century, like big-screen, high-definition plasma TVs, DVDs, IMAX movies, iPods, cell phones, Google, Facebook, texting, and IMing. None of them seemed to impress her very much.

“How about a flying car?” she asked. “Does your family have one of those?”

“Uh, no,” I admitted.

We finally found an open ticket window. A sign said box seats were $3.50 and general admission was $1.50. Man, stuff was cheap in 1969! Sunrise pulled out a few bills and asked for two general admission tickets. The guy in the ticket booth sneered at us, I guess because of our headbands and love beads.

“They're already in the third inning, y'know,” he grumbled.

“What's the score?” I asked him.

“Nothin' nothin'.”

“Well, then, we didn't miss anything,” said Sunrise cheerfully.

Clearly, this girl did not know much about baseball. As soon as we were inside the ballpark, my nose was assaulted by the smell of hot dogs and roasted peanuts. It had been hours since I ate anything, and I wished I had taken my mom up on her offer to pack me a lunch. When Sunrise asked if I wanted a hot dog, I quickly accepted.

“Hippies,” the vendor muttered as he handed us the dogs.

We found some decent seats in the upper level, about halfway down the first base line. I scanned the field as I always do when I visit a ballpark for the first time. Crosley looked small to me, even smaller than Fenway Park in Boston. I doubted that it could hold even 30,000 people. It looked a little different from most stadiums too. Instead of a warning track around the outfield, there was a steep incline in front of the fence. I'd never seen anything like that before.

“Now batting for Pittsburgh…” said the public address announcer, “…the centerfielder…Matty Alou!”

Matty Alou came out of the dugout. He was wearing an orange helmet and a black sweatshirt under his uniform.

“Booooooooooooo!”
yelled the Cincinnati fans.

“Why are they booing that guy?” asked Sunrise.

“Because he plays for Pittsburgh,” I told her.

“That's not very nice,” she said.

Matty Alou took strike one. He was a short guy, a left-handed batter.

“You really don't know a lot about baseball, do you?” I asked Sunrise.

“Sure I do!” she insisted. “The guy who hits the ball is the hitter, and the guy who throws the ball is the…thrower. Right?”

I slapped my forehead. This girl had a lot to learn.

Alou took ball one. One and one.

Sunrise admitted that she had never played baseball in her life, had never been to a game, and never
even watched one on TV. I told her that she had a deprived childhood. No wonder she hated her parents.

Matty Alou swung and missed the next pitch. One and two.

“So, how do you score a goal?” she asked. “I mean, a point.”

“It's not a goal
or
a point,” I told her. “It's a
run
. Are you new to this country or something?”

“Okay, a run,” she said. “Same difference.”

I explained that Alou would score a run if he advanced all the way around from home to first to second to third and back to home again.

“So all he wants to do is get back to where he is right now?” Sunrise said. “That seems pointless.”

Alou slapped a single up the middle and made a wide turn at first base.

“Why did he run to
that
base?” Sunrise asked me.

“Because you're supposed to,” I told her. “You run to first base.”

“What if he wants to run to third base instead?”

“Why would he want to do that?” I asked her.

“For the novelty of it,” Sunrise replied.

“Well, he can't,” I told her.

“Why not?”

“Because they've been running to first base for a hundred years!” I said. “That's the rule.”

Sunrise sighed and told me that rules are made to be broken.

“Now batting for Pittsburgh…” said the public
address announcer, “…the third baseman…Jose Pagan!”

“Booooooooooooo!”
yelled the Cincinnati fans.

“More booing,” said Sunrise, shaking her head.

On the first pitch to Pagan, Alou took off from first, made a mad dash, and slid headfirst into second base. The Cincinnati catcher whipped the ball to second and threw him out.

“Ooh, that guy tripped and fell down!” Sunrise yelled excitedly.

“He didn't fall down!” I told her. “He slid into second base!”

The Cincinnati fans erupted into cheers when the umpire signaled that Alou was out.

“What happened?” asked Sunrise as Alou walked dejectedly back to the Pirate dugout.

“They caught him trying to steal second base,” I told her.

“Is he going to get in trouble?”

I tried to explain the fundamentals of baseball to Sunrise, but she didn't quite grasp them. It was like me trying to learn Spanish.

“In baseball,” I explained, “the number three is very important. “There are three outs to an inning. Three strikes and you're out. There are three bases. There are nine innings, which is three squared, and also nine players on the field.”

“Okay,” Sunrise said. “I think I'm starting to get it.”

When Pagan took the next pitch out of the strike zone, I told Sunrise it was a ball.

“What's a ball?” she asked.

“That pitch,” I said. “It was a ball.”

“Well, of
course
it was a ball,” she said, looking at me like I was a total idiot. “What else could it possibly be?”

“No, you don't understand,” I explained. “A pitch that's out of the strike zone is a ball. Unless you swing at it.”

“So if you swing at it, it's not a ball anymore?”

“Now you're catching on,” I said.

“I take it back. I don't get it,” said Sunrise. “This is a very confusing game!”

I was just glad I didn't have to explain the infield fly rule to her. Pagan walked on four pitches.

“How come that guy is running to first?” Sunrise asked. “He didn't even hit the ball.”

“The pitcher walked him,” I said.

“So why doesn't he
walk
to first?”

I tried to explain to Sunrise that there was now a force play at second base, so Pagan had to run on a ground ball.

“What if he doesn't want to run?” she asked.

“He has to,” I told her.

“Well, that doesn't seem very nice,” she said.

“Now batting for Pittsburgh…” said the public address announcer, “…the left fielder…Willie Stargell!”

I had heard of Stargell. He was a great left-handed power hitter. They called him Pops. He's in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

As Stargell stepped up to the plate, I noticed number 21 step out of the Pirate dugout.

“Look! That's him,” I said, pointing toward the on-deck circle.

“Who?” Sunrise asked.

“Roberto Clemente.”

We were pretty far away. I squinted to see Clemente.

“Why does he have to kneel in that circle?” Sunrise asked. “Is he being punished?”

“It's called the on-deck circle,” I told her. “He's on deck.”

“Like, on a boat?” she asked.

Willie Stargell took ball one and ball two, but I couldn't take my eyes off Clemente. He was kneeling, with three bats leaning against his thigh. One by one, he carefully picked them up as if they were fine china and wiped them off with a rag. Then he hefted each bat before deciding which one he felt like using.

I barely noticed when Willie Stargell sliced a wicked line drive in the gap between left and centerfield. Jose Pagan, the runner on first base, got a good jump. The ball took a tricky hop off the wall; and by the time the Reds got it in, Pagan was digging for the plate. The Cincinnati shortstop took the relay and rifled a throw home. It was close, but the catcher
slapped the tag on Pagan just before his foot touched the plate. The fans roared their approval. Stargell pulled into second with a double. Sunrise probably had no idea what was happening, but she got into the spirit and clapped her hands excitedly.

“Now batting for Pittsburgh…” the public address announcer said, “…the rightfielder…Roberto Clemente!”

CLEMENTE WAS LIKE A DOT TO MY EYES AS I STRAINED TO
see him from the upper deck. I wanted to get a better look at him.

“Hey,” I said to Sunrise, “let's sneak down to the box seats!”

“Is that legal?” she asked.

“It's like jaywalking,” I told her.

I grabbed her hand and hustled her down the steps until we reached the lower boxes. There were a few security guards posted in the middle; but they were old guys and it didn't look like they were paying much attention. I scanned the crowd, looking for empty seats close to the field.

“I'm afraid we're going to get caught,” Sunrise said as I pulled her along.

“Just act casual,” I whispered. “Pretend you belong here.”

Crosley Field was about half full—or half empty, depending on how you look at it. There were plenty of open seats, but most of them were in the upper deck. Finally, I spotted a few seats in the third row, near first base. We rushed over there.

“What if the people who have these seats show up?” Sunrise asked.

“They won't,” I said, pulling her down into the seat next to mine. “It's the third inning. If they're not here by now, they're not coming.”

Fortunately, Clemente was not one of those guys who rushed up to home plate. So we didn't miss a thing. When Sunrise and I sat down, he was still on his way to home plate, walking slowly, deliberately, like an old man. If I was the pitcher, I would be impatient. I glanced at Willie Stargell, the runner on second.

Once he was in the batter's box, Clemente wasn't anywhere near being ready to hit. First he rotated his head and neck from side to side and then twisted it back like he was doing exercises. He didn't look like he was very comfortable.

Clemente held one arm up to let the umpire know he still wasn't ready. The ump called time. Clemente scraped at the dirt in the batter's box with his toe until he had it just the way he liked it. Finally, when he got into his stance, the pitcher stepped off the rubber. The umpire called time again.

He was deep in the batter's box. It didn't look like he could possibly reach a pitch on the outside corner.
Pittsburgh Pirates

“What's taking them so long?” Sunrise asked me.

“They're playing head games,” I told her. “It's like poker.”

Clemente positioned himself very deep in the batter's box, as far back as you could be without crossing the chalk line. It didn't look like he could possibly reach a pitch on the outside corner, even though his bat appeared to be longer than a regular bat. Also, Clemente's bat had no knob at the end. It was like one of those old-time bats with a thick handle and large barrel.

He was not a big man. The catcher and umpire
were both taller than him. He held his hands back and low, near his waist. Stargell took a lead off second base.

The pitcher finally decided he was ready and looked in for his sign. He delivered the first pitch, and Clemente took it for a called strike. It looked like he had no intention of swinging no matter what. He was checking the timing, trying to figure out the pitcher.

The two of them fidgeted around some more, and the next pitch came in. It looked high to me, but Clemente liked this one better. I recalled reading somewhere that he was known as a “bad ball hitter.”

Clemente took his stride forward impossibly early but somehow managed to keep his bat cocked until the last possible instant. His front leg was off the ground as he lunged at the ball. He didn't have a classically perfect swing like Joe DiMaggio or Ted Williams. It looked like he was throwing the bat at the ball.

It was a violent, furious swing, and it missed. Clemente spun around and grabbed his batting helmet so it wouldn't fall off his head. Strike two.

A few fans on the third-base side began chanting. At first I couldn't tell what they were saying. Then I figured it out.

“¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!”

That was on my Spanish vocab quiz just last week. It literally means “upstairs,” but Señorita Molina told us it could also mean “lifting” or “arising.” They must have been Pirates fans who came all the way from
Pittsburgh to see the game. Either that or they were taunting Clemente. He didn't seem to mind.

Everybody knows what to do on an 0-2 count. The batter has to protect the plate, swinging at just about anything close so he won't be called out on strikes. The pitcher will throw a ball out of the strike zone, hoping the batter will swing and miss at a bad pitch for strike three. I didn't bother explaining any of this to Sunrise. She wouldn't understand.

As predicted, the next pitch was outside, at least a few inches. I didn't think Clemente was going to swing at it; but at the last possible instant, he reached across the plate. It almost looked like his bat ripped the ball right out of the catcher's mitt.

When Clemente hit the ball, it made a different sound than when anybody else hit it. It sounded like a rifle shot. I didn't even see it leave the bat. But I did see the second baseman leap up with his glove fully extended. The ball went over his head, took a hop off the rightfield grass, and skipped all the way to the wall.

Stargell was sure to score from second, so I kept my eyes on Clemente. He didn't run like other people. As he broke from the batter's box, his legs were churning, his knees were pumping high, and his elbows were flailing out in every direction. But even so, he was fast and graceful. He ran like a wild colt.

As Clemente took the big turn around first, his batting helmet flew off his head. He didn't slow down. He hit the dirt feetfirst and slid past the second-base
bag, reaching up over his head to grab it with one hand. The throw coming in from the outfield wasn't even close.

His legs were churning, his knees were pumping high, and his elbows were flailing out in every direction.
Pittsburgh Pirates

“Wow!” Sunrise said after the umpire made the safe sign.

I think even she could appreciate the beauty of what we had just witnessed. The Cincinnati fans, of course, weren't nearly as appreciative, and they let loose a chorus of boos. Clemente jumped up and slapped the dirt off his pants. Stargell trotted across the plate for the first run of the game.

Pirates 1, Reds 0.