Aluminum Shades' pitcher reminded me of Gary Gant, a black player with an opposing team in Babe Ruth League. I was playing left field once when Gary was at bat. He was known to be strong, so I was playing deep. He snapped his thick wrists to golf a knee-high fastball. It rifled off his bat so low that I instinctively started running in.
It was still low enough that our shortstop leaped when it sailed over his head. By then I realized the ball hadn't finished rising. I stopped on a dime and jumped desperately at a ball that was already past me. While chasing it, I thought how nice it would be if the field didn't have its wooden fence, so I could run away from my spectacular error.
Two summers later, the batter ahead of me singles to right. I'm next up. The pitcher for Aluminum Shades, soon as he saw my teammate's ball clear the infield, turned to see who was next. He knew I'd been an easy out so far. A double-play would seal his win.
The week before we'd lost an away game at the state mental hospital. Its team was comprised of staff and patients, and one of the latter won it for them with a last-inning home run. Despite the loss, the mood during our drive home in my Chevy and Guinea's Ford was jubilant.
We called him Guinea because he had the lean-muscular build and prominent brow of a Borneo native. He was our shortstop, strongest hitter, team leader, and Lourdes' mortician. We were happy to be playing ball, and grateful that we'd found each other to form a team. Also that we weren't inmates at the nuthouse whose team had just whipped us. Guinea's Ford convertible and my Chevy coupé rode abreast on that summer evening with Motown tunes blaring and banter aplenty. Winning was great, but playing was primary.
Aluminum Shades was visiting our shabby field, located at a small park in a low-rent district of downtown Camden. It was bordered on all sides by row houses, and most residents were black. As our seven-inning game progressed, they'd leave supper tables and fill the wood bleachers along both foul lines. The locals were close behind our bench, laughing and joshing our players, some of whom lived in the neighborhood.
Most spectators wore sleeveless T-shirts and shorts, or were bare-chested. Two volunteered as umpires. None had air-conditioners at home, and Jersey's muggy summers are notorious for causing short tempers. Their mood was impatient.
"Come on, Slim, do something for a change!" one yelled as I came to bat.
Aluminum Shades' pitcher was a lefty. His earlier pitches had been over the outside half of the plate and I'd pulled them toward their shortstop. I always pulled the ball, so I told myself to be more patient. Eyeball the pitch longer before swinging. He threw overhand, but the ball was too big to blaze. I'd have time to look.
