Sord in Prosperity - Hope Beyond the Apocalypse

EP. 153 - RATTLES

OUR MOTORCYCLE ESCAPADE WAS one instance of many typical days in the desert. Then there were days that were less typical but very memorable, like our multiple escapades with poisonous snakes.

I can't say why the desert had so many of these creatures crawling across every inch of its parched ground. Looking and acting like sticks while sunning themselves. Coiled and uncoiled. Their coloring ranging from off-white to brown, save for a beautiful, red-on-yellow, coiled coral snake I accidentally stepped on one day while walking home from my last baseball game. It was a long game and I was whipped, otherwise I might have been inclined to find a way to bring the deadly viper home to show my friends.

The sun had just set behind the mountains, giving me some relief after standing in left field for hours. After the game, I set out on the two mile trail through the desert to my house. It wasn't an actual trail, per se, but a circuitous path around creosotes that got me from point A to point B in a minimum number of steps. I doubt if any kid ever walked exactly that same path given the many small obstacles like cacti to gopher holes.

I was happy, though. It was September, and I knew the hot summer was about to come to an end. Our team had done well, despite my predictable strike-out performance as the ninth batter in the lineup. Though my second-base fielding performance was fair, I had never quite grasped the physical, love-hate relationship between a baseball and bat.

My dad both lived and loved the game. Most of his pictures from World War II show him stationed in some extreme climate with a baseball glove in his hand. Had he lived longer to teach me what he knew, I may have been a contender in the game, at least at the Little League level. My ego rescue came, however, on the final day of my last suited game. In cruel irony, some guy in a baseball cap fully restored my sense of baseball net worth.

"You need to watch the ball hit the bat," the man advised.

I had just left the field to grab a drink of water. I didn't recognize the guy or the team cap on his head, though it was likely the Angels since what he told me came straight from heaven.

"What? What do you mean?" I stuttered, walking toward the fountain.

He stopped me in my tracks. Holding his arms outward as if grasping a bat, he took a long, slow, pretend swing.

"See how I turn my head the opposite direction of the bat?" he demonstrated. "That's the first step. In the second step, you force your eyes to watch the ball hit the bat. You witness how the two connect with each other. Head, eyes, ball, bat."

In my dozen years of playing baseball, no coach or teammate had ever explained it that simply to me. I was understandably skeptical.

"It won't matter," I countered as if I had tried all the ropes and failed. "My batting average is the worst in the league for the fourth straight year. My team hates it when I'm up, and everyone tells me to crouch down to make the strike zone smaller and get a walk."

"It will matter," he countered. "Your brain sees the ball connect with the bat, even though you think it can't process something happening that fast. But it can and does. Trust me. Try it when you're up to bat next time. Turn your head the opposite direction of the bat, and give your eyes and brain the chance to see the ball connect with it. Make an effort to watch the ball hit the bat."

My batting average was in the mid double digits at that time, and I had two more tries that night.

The first time up, I looked over at my coach. He was giving the only signal he ever needed to give me: 'Don't swing, take a walk.'

I decided to ignore the coach and take the baseball cap guy's advice.

A double the first time up, then a single.