Paint The Corner
My secret? Aim at big targets. They are harder to miss. I keep my dreams broad. I am rarely disappointed.
I don’t expect a bullseye and I don’t need one. Much like the way a pitcher paints the corner, I catch just enough of my dream to get the call. I can believe that, with a little help, I can have enough of whatever I need to keep going on like this.
Bottom of the ninth. The pitcher on the mound is trembling. From our seats we saw him quaking – it was that bad. It wasn’t just his hands but his whole entire body, shivering like he’d just crawled out of a frozen lake. His leg was bloody. His leg was bloody because he’d clipped it with his spikes on a pitch in the second that felt just right, and from there he kept on repeating it the exact same way.
But right now it isn’t working. Bottom of the ninth, and he walked the first batter he faced. He’d walked a couple of others early on in the game and another in the eighth, but he hasn’t allowed a hit all day and that’s what he’s still doing out there. The game is not on the line – not yet – but he is. This is, and his leg is bleeding because of it, because his spike caught his leg on the fourth pitch of the second when he perfectly painted the corner – perfectly, got the call, wasn’t not going to get it. That goddamn pitch was something out of a text book. No, something out of a video they’d show in the Hall of Fame just like they’re going to show this one. Just like they’re going to show this one, if only he can get the last three outs.
See, that’s the problem. He knows. He’s thinking about it. He didn’t even have to pretend he wasn’t thinking about it before because it’s true, he wasn't. Not in the seventh, not in the eighth. But in the top of the ninth he looked up from under the towel he had over his head cause he heard the crowd roar. It was a double to left but he'd caught a glimpse of all those shining zeroes. He didn’t mean to. He never meant to. Shit, he thought it was the eighth but that wouldn’t have mattered, that just would have screwed him up earlier than now. Cause he’s screwed up now. He’s shaking. It’s the first time he’s felt the sting in his leg. It hurts.
He has to calm down. He has to be still again. All day he’s been waiting on the batter and he’s not going to stop that now, but he’s rushing it. He’s rushing inside and he can feel it. He can hear his blood in his ears. It’s all he can hear. What was he listening to earlier? What was he hearing when it was all going so right? There was a song in his head, but that’s what was in his head when that bloop in the eighth nearly fell in, so screw that song. What was it after that? There was no after that: That was the third out. And now he’s walked a guy to start the ninth. He’s got to slow his heart down. He focuses on his breathing.
Three pitches. Paint the corner. One out.
Three pitches. Paint the corner. Two.
The second out makes him shake again, and makes him think again, and he hates thinking. He comes out here to stop thinking. It’s the only place he’s ever been able to truly be alone. And he likes being alone. That’s what they don’t tell you. The guys think a pitcher hates when they come to the mound cause they’re telling him what to do, or because it means he’s failing. And sure that sucks too but really it’s cause a pitcher comes out here to be alone, and they’re screwing that up for him. They’re messing with his peace. Some pitchers fight for it, some just try to go Zen and ignore the shapes and voices. Some like him just nod or mutter whatever a guy needs to hear to get him gone again. The mound is the loneliest place in the world, solitary confinement in a see-through cell but it’s home more than anyplace else is. It’s quiet in a way nothing else is. It’s his own in a way nothing else is. And that’s why it’s so miserable to be pulled, because it’s going to be days before you get back there again, home away from home, home at home, home more than anywhere, which is something he figures no one else understands, but of course some do. You do, or would if he told you, but he doesn’t know you, and wouldn’t tell you if he did. He’s not good with words, and talking about peace tends to break it, and he knows this.
Just like he knows thinking too much breaks it. And he’s thinking too much now. That’s why he’s shaking - he’s goddamn thinking. Thinking in his goddamn home, his place of peace, the exact place he comes to make all that go away and it’s goddamn invading him.
Ball one.
He knows not to throw angry. Makes him go too fast, makes the ball come up. The batter’s waiting on him. He calls time. Shit.
Breathe. Lift the knee, clip the leg. Paint the corner.
Ball two.
The umpire doesn’t want to make it easy on him. He doesn’t want to be mentioned, or blamed. That was a strike in any other inning but he doesn’t want to be accused of giving this away. Wait. He’s just doing his thing. Don’t throw angry. Love that man. Love that man. He’s fat and he’s lonely and he’s been wanting to take a piss since the third and maybe that’s why he’s been giving you those calls. Breathe. Lift knee, clip leg.
Strike one.
Got lucky. That one got too much of the plate but the coward beside it is looking for a walk, down by five in a goddamn no-hitter. No-hitter. Shit. He thought about it again. He’s screwed. These kinds of things don’t happen to guys like him. Number five starter, poor pedigree, clumsy tongue. Freezes on camera, media nightmare. These kinds of things don’t happen to guys like him. So just enjoy the moment. Enjoy the peace. It’s going to end. Lift knee, clip leg.
The centerfielder is a kid. He’s had a bad day at the plate and feels like the only guy who didn’t get a hit today, but really, two guys didn’t. He’s pressing. He’s pressing because he doesn’t read the paper or listen to the news but goddamn Sports Center had to go and do a goddamn feature on that guy in AAA. A goddamn feature. So he wants to do something. Wants to do something special. Today. Pitcher’s got a damn no-hitter and he’s done shit. Shortstop made a spectacular catch on a bloop in the eighth that he, the centerfielder, could have made look boring if that old bastard wasn’t running backwards and waving him off, no respect for him at all. Calling him “Kid” and shit. They were saying that guy in AAA is ready, said they can’t hold him back.
He’s playing back. Back near the wall when maybe he should be playing in more. Coach whistles at him from the bench and flails his arms around, waving him closer in, but he trusts his own speed. He trusts his own speed, and that guy probably won’t be his coach much longer so why listen?
But maybe Coach was right. Maybe he was right cause he hears the crack and he’s way back by the wall and all this goddamn distraction and shit he’s late, and he knows it, and he’s running in and he’s running in hard. He’s flying, he’s like a greyhound or a cheetah just taking these giant strides and he sees the ball arcing down and he’s fast, he’s probably fast enough but he’s thinking about that shortstop calling him Kid and he’s thinking about the no-hitter and he realizes he’s never really spoken to that pitcher, like ever. And he realizes what it will mean if he makes it to that ball, that ball above all other balls he’s ever had a chance at; this ball, this sacred god of a ball and he imagines what it’s going to feel like in his hand and what it’s going to feel like to run in with it. Or to lay there if it gets past him, maybe he’ll walk in limping just because.
But no, Coach was wrong. He’s fast enough, and it’s arcing down, and maybe he doesn’t have to and maybe he shouldn’t but this play is going to be on Sports Center no matter what and that little shit down in AAA can watch his feature and maybe he doesn’t have to, but he dives. He dives, and the grass is more resistant than he figured shit but he’s long and he reaches and he’s always been fast enough.
He reaches out his glove and he knows: This is going to be on Sports Center no matter what.
I don’t expect a bullseye and I don’t need one. Much like the way a pitcher paints the corner, I catch just enough of my dream to get the call. I can believe that, with a little help, I can have enough of whatever I need to keep going on like this.
Bottom of the ninth. The pitcher on the mound is trembling. From our seats we saw him quaking – it was that bad. It wasn’t just his hands but his whole entire body, shivering like he’d just crawled out of a frozen lake. His leg was bloody. His leg was bloody because he’d clipped it with his spikes on a pitch in the second that felt just right, and from there he kept on repeating it the exact same way.
But right now it isn’t working. Bottom of the ninth, and he walked the first batter he faced. He’d walked a couple of others early on in the game and another in the eighth, but he hasn’t allowed a hit all day and that’s what he’s still doing out there. The game is not on the line – not yet – but he is. This is, and his leg is bleeding because of it, because his spike caught his leg on the fourth pitch of the second when he perfectly painted the corner – perfectly, got the call, wasn’t not going to get it. That goddamn pitch was something out of a text book. No, something out of a video they’d show in the Hall of Fame just like they’re going to show this one. Just like they’re going to show this one, if only he can get the last three outs.
See, that’s the problem. He knows. He’s thinking about it. He didn’t even have to pretend he wasn’t thinking about it before because it’s true, he wasn't. Not in the seventh, not in the eighth. But in the top of the ninth he looked up from under the towel he had over his head cause he heard the crowd roar. It was a double to left but he'd caught a glimpse of all those shining zeroes. He didn’t mean to. He never meant to. Shit, he thought it was the eighth but that wouldn’t have mattered, that just would have screwed him up earlier than now. Cause he’s screwed up now. He’s shaking. It’s the first time he’s felt the sting in his leg. It hurts.
He has to calm down. He has to be still again. All day he’s been waiting on the batter and he’s not going to stop that now, but he’s rushing it. He’s rushing inside and he can feel it. He can hear his blood in his ears. It’s all he can hear. What was he listening to earlier? What was he hearing when it was all going so right? There was a song in his head, but that’s what was in his head when that bloop in the eighth nearly fell in, so screw that song. What was it after that? There was no after that: That was the third out. And now he’s walked a guy to start the ninth. He’s got to slow his heart down. He focuses on his breathing.
Three pitches. Paint the corner. One out.
Three pitches. Paint the corner. Two.
The second out makes him shake again, and makes him think again, and he hates thinking. He comes out here to stop thinking. It’s the only place he’s ever been able to truly be alone. And he likes being alone. That’s what they don’t tell you. The guys think a pitcher hates when they come to the mound cause they’re telling him what to do, or because it means he’s failing. And sure that sucks too but really it’s cause a pitcher comes out here to be alone, and they’re screwing that up for him. They’re messing with his peace. Some pitchers fight for it, some just try to go Zen and ignore the shapes and voices. Some like him just nod or mutter whatever a guy needs to hear to get him gone again. The mound is the loneliest place in the world, solitary confinement in a see-through cell but it’s home more than anyplace else is. It’s quiet in a way nothing else is. It’s his own in a way nothing else is. And that’s why it’s so miserable to be pulled, because it’s going to be days before you get back there again, home away from home, home at home, home more than anywhere, which is something he figures no one else understands, but of course some do. You do, or would if he told you, but he doesn’t know you, and wouldn’t tell you if he did. He’s not good with words, and talking about peace tends to break it, and he knows this.
Just like he knows thinking too much breaks it. And he’s thinking too much now. That’s why he’s shaking - he’s goddamn thinking. Thinking in his goddamn home, his place of peace, the exact place he comes to make all that go away and it’s goddamn invading him.
Ball one.
He knows not to throw angry. Makes him go too fast, makes the ball come up. The batter’s waiting on him. He calls time. Shit.
Breathe. Lift the knee, clip the leg. Paint the corner.
Ball two.
The umpire doesn’t want to make it easy on him. He doesn’t want to be mentioned, or blamed. That was a strike in any other inning but he doesn’t want to be accused of giving this away. Wait. He’s just doing his thing. Don’t throw angry. Love that man. Love that man. He’s fat and he’s lonely and he’s been wanting to take a piss since the third and maybe that’s why he’s been giving you those calls. Breathe. Lift knee, clip leg.
Strike one.
Got lucky. That one got too much of the plate but the coward beside it is looking for a walk, down by five in a goddamn no-hitter. No-hitter. Shit. He thought about it again. He’s screwed. These kinds of things don’t happen to guys like him. Number five starter, poor pedigree, clumsy tongue. Freezes on camera, media nightmare. These kinds of things don’t happen to guys like him. So just enjoy the moment. Enjoy the peace. It’s going to end. Lift knee, clip leg.
The centerfielder is a kid. He’s had a bad day at the plate and feels like the only guy who didn’t get a hit today, but really, two guys didn’t. He’s pressing. He’s pressing because he doesn’t read the paper or listen to the news but goddamn Sports Center had to go and do a goddamn feature on that guy in AAA. A goddamn feature. So he wants to do something. Wants to do something special. Today. Pitcher’s got a damn no-hitter and he’s done shit. Shortstop made a spectacular catch on a bloop in the eighth that he, the centerfielder, could have made look boring if that old bastard wasn’t running backwards and waving him off, no respect for him at all. Calling him “Kid” and shit. They were saying that guy in AAA is ready, said they can’t hold him back.
He’s playing back. Back near the wall when maybe he should be playing in more. Coach whistles at him from the bench and flails his arms around, waving him closer in, but he trusts his own speed. He trusts his own speed, and that guy probably won’t be his coach much longer so why listen?
But maybe Coach was right. Maybe he was right cause he hears the crack and he’s way back by the wall and all this goddamn distraction and shit he’s late, and he knows it, and he’s running in and he’s running in hard. He’s flying, he’s like a greyhound or a cheetah just taking these giant strides and he sees the ball arcing down and he’s fast, he’s probably fast enough but he’s thinking about that shortstop calling him Kid and he’s thinking about the no-hitter and he realizes he’s never really spoken to that pitcher, like ever. And he realizes what it will mean if he makes it to that ball, that ball above all other balls he’s ever had a chance at; this ball, this sacred god of a ball and he imagines what it’s going to feel like in his hand and what it’s going to feel like to run in with it. Or to lay there if it gets past him, maybe he’ll walk in limping just because.
But no, Coach was wrong. He’s fast enough, and it’s arcing down, and maybe he doesn’t have to and maybe he shouldn’t but this play is going to be on Sports Center no matter what and that little shit down in AAA can watch his feature and maybe he doesn’t have to, but he dives. He dives, and the grass is more resistant than he figured shit but he’s long and he reaches and he’s always been fast enough.
He reaches out his glove and he knows: This is going to be on Sports Center no matter what.
