A couple of weeks ago I was breaking in the baseball glove I bought for Karen — and, I admit, having a little fun myself — in the best way I knew how. I took the glove and a new rubber ball out to the alley and played catch with myself by bouncing the ball off the brick wall of an adjacent building.
For generations, I believe, this has been a refuge for solitary children in the city who had no park nearby and no friend handy to play catch with. Do kids even do this anymore? I’ve no idea. They’re likely not allowed to play alone outside anymore. Play mustn’t be disorganized, you know. You’ve got to be in a league or have a date to play, chaperoned at all times.
And God forbid you toss a ball against some neighbor’s wall. You might break a window, after all. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? You might.
Anyway, it was a weekday afternoon I had chosen for my solitary play/glove breaking-in session. An overweight 27-year-old playing catch by himself tends to get looks. Curious looks. But mostly, indifferent looks, thank goodness for the anonymizing tendencies of the city.
I threw grounders. I threw pop-ups. I threw missiles to first to get a blazing runner just in time. My mind drew back to the last time I’d done this, probably when I was 12 or 13. Greg Maddux was in his first go-round with the Cubs. I pretended to be Maddux, pitching a perfect game on 27 straight ground balls to win the World Series.
So I played and worked up a sweat and the squeeze on the glove got a little easier. My glove hand smelled of sweat and oil and leather. Then, I spotted a very nice-looking black lady walking by. She had on slacks, high heels, a long-sleeve blouse and … a faux-fur vest.
As she walked the 15 paces between when she first saw me and where I disappeared behind the building that formed the other half of the alley, her look went from surprise to confusion to recognition to joy. She gave me a big smile. I tipped my cap and threw the ball, and she disappeared.
Then she stepped back into view.
“Hey,” she said. I looked in her direction.
“Yeah?” I said, fearing she’d give me a hard time about bothering the neighbors or something similarly adultish.
“Do you mind if I throw a couple?” she asked sheepishly.
“Not at all,” I said, simultaneously relieved and amazed. “Not at all! Please, go ahead. Be my guest.”
I slipped off my glove and handed it to her as she put down her cute little purse.
“I haven’t done this since I was 10 years old,” she said, as she rared back to throw one off the wall. She missed it on the rebound and went chasing after the ball as it skipped underneath a nearby car.
She threw another and this time she caught it.
“Not bad for a 45-year-old, huh?”
“No, not bad at all,” I said.
“Just a couple more,” she said, as if I’d ever dream of taking the glove out of her hands.
“Go head. Take your time.”
She kept throwing and catching, throwing and catching, missing and skipping and chasing, getting a little short of breath. Periodically she’d promise “just a couple more” as I looked on with arms folded and a big smile, the way a father looks at a daughter who’s just mastered the jump rope.
After a few minutes, she reluctantly handed over the glove.
“Sure you don’t want to throw a few more?” I offered.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she said, catching her breath. “So you don’t think they mind?” she said, pointing to indicate the occupants of the building.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” I said. “Now if I came out here at three in the morning it might be different. I figure it’s OK as long as I don’t break a window. If somebody complains, I’ll stop.” How long ago did I learn that etiquette?
“That was fun,” she said. “I don’t have a glove anymore.”
“Well, you ought to buy one,” I said. “I just bought this one. Not too expensive. Get a ball and a glove, and I’ll see you out here.”
“Maybe I will,” she said in a way that indicated the idea was both entirely new yet not totally childish.
We introduced ourselves and I yelled a hopeful “See ya!” as she disappeared behind the building. I haven’t been out for another solitary catch since then. Haven’t had much time, and the weather’s been lousy. So I haven’t seen her since. And I don’t remember her name.
But I do like to think that later that evening, as she drew her glove hand up to her face and smelled the oil and the sweat and the leather, that she recalled the day when she was 10 and threw 27 straight grounders to win the World Series.
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