Page Title

J. B. Earl paused.
It was a deliberate pause, timed and taken so that anyone watching would think he was contemplating the field, or that night's
game, or even baseball itself. In truth, out of the corner of his eye he watched "The Grouch," the team's green and fuzzy
mascot.
"Cheap knock off," he thought. It was a phrase he never would have thought of on his own -- the big, right-handed, right
fielder certainly wasn't the most polished bat in the rack -- but he'd heard it once and liked the sound of it. "Cheap knock off."
He listened to it in his head, appreciating how it captured this minor league mascot's minor league resemblance to the parent
club's own green and fuzzy one. He stepped up and out of the dugout, taking several slow steps before breaking into a trot.
As J.B. passed him The Grouch pointed a high-powered squirt gun at his feet, firing a short burst. Pretending to be amused J.
B repeated his mantra, "Cheap knock off," loud enough for the mascot to hear. The Grouch scratched his huge green head
with a huge green hand and shrugged.
That simple phrase made J.B. feel better about his present situation as far as playing in the minors was concerned. Coming
down from the majors after having been traded was a blow, one he compensated for by feeling superior. Now, after over a
month with the farm team he'd developed a jaundiced eye that saw everything here as a cheap knock off of the big time. He
liked his phrase better than the one his wife used. "A big fish in a small pond," was how she described it, adding, "Not a bad
situation to be in." There was something there he didn't like, that implicit that there was a bigger pond with bigger fish and he
wasn't swimming there.
Once in the outfield he cast his caustic eye toward the party deck, a redwood stained monstrosity perched above the bullpen.
There parties of up to one hundred and fifty people could enjoy the game, complete with grill and their own bar. He hated it.
During the game he could feel it looming there but still, when he turned to make a play on the ball, it startled him, tripping up
his instinctive play.
He turned and watched the infield throw around the horn. Casually the ball was tossed from first to second, second to third,
third back to short and from there back to first. All the while the pitcher and catcher concentrated on their warm ups. A ball
was thrown to J.B. from center field and he caught it without thought. He lobbed it back, turned back to the stands and
wondered why those people were there.

Ross and Larry, two thirty-something Waspish men, found themselves tangled in a line of Orthodox boys, a surreal moment
that passed without comment. Every summer camps in the region's mountains filled with kids from the city, one of their
perks being frequent trips to the stadium. Never mind that they lived in the shadow of Shea or Yankee Stadium -- every night
the buses belched up a batch of kids eager to roam the stadium for a few hours.
This was a rare night out for the two of them. In recent years, trips to the stadium, which were once a staple, had become
less frequent. Marriage, modern life and all the sundry baggage that came with it saw to that. Already it was August and this
was their first ball game together this year.
Larry had already attended a few. Of the two he was more the fan. He knew some of the players by name and liked to see
them turn plays. But primarily he came to watch the game itself, not missing the big names of the major leagues. For Ross, a
young attorney laboring to establish his own practice, a night at the stadium was a night removed from all that. Where Larry
was content to take in the game, Ross was more like those kids from camp; he would be up roaming after a few innings.
After a stop at a beer stand Larry led the way to their seats. Spotting the players taking the field he slowed.
"You see that guy there," he said, pointing out J.B. Earl as he trotted out to right field. "He can smash a ball. He nailed two the
last time I was here."
Ross looked out over the rim of his cup. "He's a big boy."
They handed their tickets to an usherette and followed her down the steps.
"Right there sirs, seats five and six."
Larry paused, letting Ross into the row of seats first.

Hearing someone making their way into their section Patricia -- not Patty, Patricia -- was quick to look over her shoulder to
see who it was. Karen did the same. They never missed a game.
Patricia didn't recognize the first man making his way to his seat behind her but she did recognize the second. He nodded and
said hello, confirming he'd been there before.
"Hi," she answered flatly, glancing to Karen. It was irrational and she knew it, but their section was their neighborhood and
she wasn't comfortable when strangers were in it. Like Patricia, Karen recognized the second man but she also felt she knew
the first. It was a face she should know.
The smack of a fastball in a catcher's mitt snapped their attention back to the field in time to see the umpire's call.
"Ball."
"That's okay Mickey," Patricia called out.
Karen clapped her encouragement.
They were both stocky women and though they weren't ugly casual observers would be surprised to find them both married.
They were committed to "the boys," as they referred to the home team. "Meet the Team Night," appreciation dinners,
personal appearances and more; if it involved “the boys” they didn't miss it.
"Ball."
"It's okay Mickey, it's early," Patricia yelled. Mickey Mathewson, tonight's young pitcher, was a personal favorite.
The next pitch was in the dirt, nearly getting away from the catcher.
"Ball."
Patricia leaned to her friend. "I hope he doesn't have another long night," she said, referring to Mickey's two and nine record.
Out on the mound the young pitcher felt the itch of sweat on his spine and though the park was full of sound, where he
stood it was silent.

By the third inning Mickey had pitched his team into a three run hole, including two runs walked in. His silence was broken
and he could hear it. Not the low groan of the crowd as he pitched another ball, nor the lack of protest as the umpire made
his call, not even the calls of vendors hawking their wares in the cheap seats. Of all the sounds filling the stadium there was
but one he could hear -- his name being called in a familiar, casual way, the way his mother had encouraged him while
keeping conversation with the other Little League moms.
Trying to ignore it he nodded approval of the catcher's call, drew up into his stance and found the concentration wasn't
there. He made a routine throw to first base. "Just to keep the runner honest," he told himself. The ball came back and he
settled down to get his signals. Then he heard his name called again and missed the sign from Ricky, the catcher.
This was an unforeseen situation for the young pitcher. He leaned forward on the mound, clueless as to what to do. He could
see Ricky's eyes waiting behind the bars of his catcher’s mask.
He could...
He could shake off the call as if he didn't like it but coach preferred they didn't question the team's catcher's, who were more
experienced than the pitching staff. Or he could...
shrug.
Which is what he did without even realizing it.

Behind his mask Ricky smiled.
Shaking his head he called time out. This wasn't the first time he'd seen a rookie do this.
On the mound Mickey realized what he'd done, and, lowering his head, laughed. For the first time that evening he felt loose.
Peeking from under the bill of his cap he could see the smirk on Ricky's face as he walked toward him.

If the truth be known Karen wasn't thrilled to be there tonight. She hadn't lost her taste for the game, or her love of "the
boys," she just hadn't felt like coming out. But to have skipped the game and left Patricia alone for the evening would have
caused more trouble than it was worth. So there she sat her mind wandering back to the man sitting behind her.
“Did you see that?”
"Karen?"
She didn't hear Patricia talking to her.
"Karen? Did you see that?"
"What," she finally answered.
"What? He just stood there and shrugged."
Karen tried to take stock of the situation on the field. "I missed that. Who called time?"
"Ricky did," said Patricia, "Where were you?"

Ricky walked from the mound, nodding to the umpire and pulling his mask back over his face as he neared the plate. In front
of Ross and Larry two women yelled their encouragement, making it unlikely they heard Ross say, "What? They're not taking
this guy out?"
"You'd think they would," Larry said, "But that's the minors."
"What do you mean?"
"He'll probably pitch five or more innings, just for the practice."
"Cut the kid a break."
"It's a learning experience."
"That painful, huh? You need a beer?" he asked and they set off in search of one. As they did Karen had the chance to
discreetly look Ross's way.

And it came to her where she knew him from.

The beer run turned into a circuit of the stadium. When J.B. Earl came to bat for the second time that evening they were on
the other side of the stadium, watching from behind the left field seats. Two men on, but two outs made this an opportunity
for J.B. He strode to the plate, tapped it once with his bat and, stepping into a loose version of his stance, swung. He touched
his bat to the plate for a second time and set up for the pitch.
Standing there he felt his empty stomach growl. "Christ I'm hungry," he thought, wondering if the catcher and umpire had
heard his belly roll.
The pitch came and went. Ball
"Good eye," he told himself. "Just wait and he'll give you the pitch."
The next pitch came and went. Strike.
"Damn. That was it." He shook his head. "Got the corner with that one."
Back in his stance he gave the young pitcher his 'I got your number ' look. "This one's it," he told himself, "Same pitch, same
spot."
He was right, but only caught enough of the ball to foul it away, his stomach growling in protest.

Ross watched the ball carom into the seats a dozen rows from where they stood. Larry gave it a glance then looked back to
home plate in time to see J. B. grimace and take a small chop at the air with his bat.
"That was the closest one yet," Ross commented, envying the man who held the errant ball aloft. He would be a hero if he
brought a foul ball home for his sons.
"Trying too hard," Larry said.

Karen wouldn't have thought it possible but his return to the seat behind her brought with it butterflies. What she couldn't
decide was whether they were from the fear that he might recognize her and strike up some strained conversation or if she
was having that same schoolgirl reaction she had had as a schoolgirl.
She didn't mention anything about this to Patricia. It certainly wasn't important but she had no desire to recount it. Recalling
it was sufficient. After all, it was something that had occurred long before she knew Patricia; it was something from her life.
Maybe what bothered her most was that he seemed oblivious to it all. Did he really not recognize her, or was he just doing a
good job of ignoring her? Was it possible that she had become so innocuous that he simply failed to notice her there, quite
literally, in front of him?

Ross might have eventually noticed who sat in front of him if the seventh inning hadn't come along. When it did two ushers
brought that night's Dollar Dice contestants through their section, each one carrying a placard with a number on it. They
stopped at the gate to the field and waited, joking amongst themselves.
"Pat Donico," Ross said aloud, to himself.
"Who?"
"Down there." He nodded to the group that had just passed, "Pat Donico."
"And who's that?" Larry asked.
"You know that bank I work with. He works for them."
"Oh. What's the deal there anyway?” asked Larry, not terribly interested. “Are you their legal consultant or something?"
"No, they really don't ask me anything. Once a month I go and listen to them talk about their money, that's all."
Ross spotted another familiar face. "There's Bert Sweeny, he's with the bank too," he said, looking closer. "They're all with
the bank," he realized, rattling off some names. "...and there's Carl Catera, the president of the bank."
"He must be the one with his tie still on," Larry quipped.
Larry settled in to watch the action on the field hoping this might curb his friend's interest in the bankers. Still he watched
them. When they turned and looked up to the luxury boxes above where they sat Ross looked too. When they waved to
people leaning on the rail of one box Ross said, "Jesus, they're all here. Do you believe it?" After a moment's thought he
asked Larry, "Do you want to go up?"
"I don't think you can get up there without a pass or something," Larry said, hoping to kill the idea.
"Well then we'll wait for them to play their game and go up with them. I mean I'm on the board with them, if they see me
they have to invite me up, right?"
Larry shrugged and tried to beg off but Ross liked the idea. Soon they were standing along the aisle where the bankers would
have to pass on their way back upstairs. From there they watched as giant dice rolled down from the press box, across the
foul ball netting and fell to the field. In less time than it took to figure out the game the bankers were headed their way. Ross
intercepted them.
"Hey Pat, how are you?"
"Ross, good to see you," Pat answered, amiable enough.
As they shook hands Ross greeted the next one in line, creating a bottleneck of sorts. He was joking with them when the man
in the tie made his way to the head of the line. With a cursory greeting to Ross he said, "Come on, let's get back upstairs,"
and as easy as that he turned his little group and led them away.
Ross looked at Larry. "Do you believe that?"

The score stood at five to four and J.B. Earl stood in right field, very much aware of his empty stomach. Late in the game
they had closed to within one run and were still in it. Not that J.B. had had anything to do with that. Still, he would have one
more chance, one more at bat.
He watched as the first batter walked and listened as his stomach growled. Compounding the problem was the grill on the
party deck. Every night around this time the breeze died and heavy smoke from that grill spilled onto the field, bringing
visions of greasy cheeseburgers and well-done hot dogs.
J.B. shook these chimeras from his head and settled into his stance.
One strike out and a sacrifice fly later his mind again went astray. This time an especially dense cloud of smoke wrapped
itself around him, teasing his nose like some cartoon. Surprised at its density, he turned to see if it had really come from that
deck behind him.
He heard the crack of the bat. Then came a sick split second as he desperately searched for the ball.
Not in the infield, they were looking up.
There it was -- high, and headed his way.
Going deep.
Long before it hit the back edge of the field, just short of the warning track, he knew he'd lost the split second he'd needed to
catch it. It bounced off the wall and came back toward him. Before he turned to throw to the cut off he knew the man on
second would make it home.
"Damn. Caught day dreaming like some little league kid with the attention span of a....."
"Damn," he said again. The rest of the inning was passed in an exaggerated state of readiness, consciously striving to look
alert and unaffected by his lapse.
When the inning ended he trotted in. The Grouch, not one to pass on an entertaining opportunity, plodded along beside him,
shaking his big green head. J.B. came along side of him, wrapping his arm around the mascot's shoulders as if to comfort
him. Instead, he twisted the headpiece of the costume just enough to blind its occupant. The sightless mascot veered to his
right trying to fix his costume. Tripping over first base, he rolled about helplessly until the umpire and first base coach
stopped laughing and helped him up.

Late that night -- long after the stadium lights were shut off and the gates locked -- Tony Calirisso, the man inside the
Grouch costume, sat in a bar not far from the stadium telling anyone who would listen what "... a miserable prick that J.B.
Earl is. And he's not even good," he said to the bartender as he walked past. "He went oh for five tonight." At the same time
Ross was recounting the snub he had suffered to his wife, who really wasn't interested. And Karen wondered how it was the
scars of a spurned grade school crush could itch so much after so long.

The End.