There wasn’t much he could do anymore. Tendonitis made it difficult to play baseball, he had tennis elbow (can’t even say where from), his feet were flat, wasn’t coordinated enough for ice hockey, and he was too scrawny to get into football. He had a lisp, and spat from the corner of his mouth when he got angry. Oh, he had anger… anger at his parents, anger at his roommates, anger at Channel 12 and their stupid Newschopper 12… he had plenty of rage to go around. There was only one thing that made his feel like a champion.
He could tell by how the ball bounced on its loping way from the mound if it was gonna be a lofter. He could see the holes in the infield, and he made mental notes when the basemen dropped the ball. He chuckled to himself when someone ran in from the outfield to catch a ball without calling it, and a Keystone Cops moment ensued. He could tell when the umps were distracted, and he could smell it when the opposing team started getting scared when he took to the plate.
He loved this game. He was good – almost too good. He was king of the kickball field. And it was his time to shine again.
The sound of the loudspeaker from the street… the call of the umpires… the smell of sweat and beer… it must be a Saturday at Armory Park.
The season has begun, the new teams have been initiated, and the favorites have been picked. Who will come out victorious? Who will drink cold beer from the cup of Stephen Olney? And who, what poor group of souls will drink warm, stale beer from the cup of Cianci?
It’s summer, it’s kickball, and it’s Providence. Welcome.