Daily Log of a Fresh-faced College Graduate
June 13, 2013

The Thoroughbreds are home for a quick four-game series with Florida before they head to New Orleans.  I could pretend I’m here to do research, to follow Kentucky down to the Bayou country and catch up to the Trendsetters before they take me to London.  That’s something I might have said a couple months ago, but I can’t say that now.

It’s 6:55 p.m. and we’re ten minutes away from watching Rocky Reed take on the Featherheads’ Chris York in a game that could be a lot like life.  Florida is the “have” of the equation, standing atop the Dixie division and trying to push the Thoroughbreds down another notch.  Kentucky is hoping to bail water fast enough to keep afloat in a season that seems doomed to a form of mediocrity – another  of those multitudes of seasons that no one really remembers except in distant conversations that start with, “Hey, remember that time back… Christ, I don’t know when, but remember when…?” and the other guy says, “Yeah, I remember, wasn’t that the year Jamie Boyd came up?” and the other guy goes, “Could be.”  But it isn’t that year because no one can really place it; it’s just easier to agree with the dude and move on.

But I’ll remember today.  Today I’m standing in the aisle behind home plate and looking down at an attendant who is taking notes of some kind.  She’s thin and wearing a dark blue blazer with Thoroughbred red trim.  Her chestnut hair is still cropped short.  She looks professional.  Players are tossing catch out in the field and the PA announcer is introducing the starting lineups.  She rises up and I can see she’s wearing a little makeup and her eyes dance in stadium lights that have already been turned on to ensure a smooth transition between afternoon and evening.  She turns and comes up the stairs.

Recognition dawns as she gets about halfway up.  “Hi,” she says when she gets to my level.  She’s anxious, and so am I.  She points at me in an exaggerated way that lets me know she’s joking to give herself some time to get used to me being here.  “You’re… uh… Casey, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s Don-o?”

I smile.  I have no freakin’ clue where Don-o is, but I’m getting used to the question.  “He’s at a game,” I say.

“Cool.”

We stand like that for a minute.  Then someone recognizes me and asks me to sign his program.  It’s an old guy, probably thirty-five or forty, with a belly lapping over his belt and a T-Bred cap perched on the back of his head.  He claps me on the back and smiles as I hand him back the program.  He looks at Mezzy.  “You should grab this guy, honey,” he says.  “They don’t come any better.”  I smile, and the guy finally leaves.

“How’s your arm?” Mezzy says.  Of course she knows my story – can’t be around baseball without knowing.  “It’s good,” I say, and I move it around.  It’s still tender, really, but I can manage and I’ve stopped the pain meds.  “I’m supposed to exercise it every day to keep the blood flowing.  Don’t think I’ll have much of a fastball from here out, though.”

She gives one of her best laughs, and then she looks at me.  “What are you doing here, Casey?”

I glance away to the field as if I could draw strength from its pool of green.  For a minute, I think of Don-o and his belief in baseball.  “I’m writing a book,” I say.  I look at Mezzy then, and I take her eyes directly.  “I thought I might live here while I do it, and that maybe you and I could maybe have dinner somewhere – don’t matter where.  I thought maybe I could talk with you a bit, and, you know… no guarantees or nothing, but just see what happens.”

And there it is.  It’s a batting practice fastball right down the heart of the plate, and Mezzy’s standing there with her bat in her hands and eyeing it.  I wait.

“All right,” she says with a crinkled smile.  “All right, Casey at the Bat.  We’ll see what you got.”

“I’m not Casey at the Bat,” I say.  She looks at me with a question on her face.  “I’m not named after him, anyway.”

She chews her lip.  “Okay.  Who were you named after?”

“Neal Cassady,” I say.

“The Partridge Family guy?”

That makes me laugh.  David Cassidy and Neal Cassady.  “No,” I say.

“Don’t know him, then.”

“He was just a guy.  Someone wrote a book about him.”

“That could be okay, I suppose.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just wait.

“I gotta go take care of Mr. Davenport’s request,” she says, glancing down the aisle.  I say okay, and she starts goes to leave.  Then she stops and turns.  “Did this other guy you’re named after strike out?”

I think for a second.  “Yeah, he probably struck out his share of times.”

“But not every time?”

I think about the Beat age.  I think about Don-o.  I think about my Dad out selling crap he don’t care about.  “No,” I say.  “I’m sure he got his fair share of homers.”

Mezzy smiles that perfect smile.  “Dinner after the game?” she says.

I nod, and then she’s gone.  The world seeps in a little at a time – first the stands, the concrete and the seats and people milling around, the dads and the kids with their cotton candy and the old farts and the girls.  Then comes the smells and the feeling of fresh air – the sense of ballpark that Churchill 1 entails.  The PA quiets and the whole park pauses for just an instant before the umpire barks his famous words.

#

On the field, the ball is the most perfect white and the lines are straight.  The dirt is brown, and the sound of fans rises to a swell as pure as an ocean wave.  Florida’s Dan Jamison digs in at the plate.  Kentucky’s Rocky Reed kicks dirt out of his spikes, then stands still to take the sign.  The brim of his cap dips, and despite the fact that I’ve seen a thousand games in m y life, I find myself holding my breath as he goes into his windup.

It’s the first pitch, you see – the first pitch of a brand new ballgame.