»The Pitch Called Life«
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 Well I had this short story writing competition about a year back, and was given five topics, one of which was "The Pitch Called Life". It was to be submitted the very next day, and I came up with this. I've never 'revised' it, but I've also never 'seriously' written a short story before, so I'd like some constructive criticism to see if I should practise it or just chuck it. I used to write poems, and I've written one play that we staged for a competition. Oh, and I don't know much about baseball so the few details mentioned here regarding it might as well be wrong, please excuse me I didn't have the time for any research  It's rather.. hammy, really.
THE PITCH CALLED LIFE 7:36 PM It was about to happen. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his system - that natural instinct of 'fight or flight', as old as time itself and still as strong and responsive as ever. The atmosphere was charged with electricity. 20,000 human bodies packed into a single auditorium. The collective tension was unbelievable, unbearable. One got rather addicted to it. Donald Lee Simpson, affectionately called Donlee. Age - 40 years. 40 whole revolutions around a ball of gas, on a rock - and then some. He had seen quite a few things in life, but nothing compared to the ethereal, alternate-universe quality of a baseball ground on a match-day. And Nothing, Absolutely Nothing, compared to that feeling you got when you heard your name announced over the system, and then slowly heard the crowd catching on, chanting it, inviting you in, to the game. Donlee had seen it before, felt it before, but had never gotten used to it. Still hadn't; in fact, he didn't think he'd ever get used to it. That knot in the pit of your stomach, that ball that built up when you knew the previous guy had lost and you were out there next, that euphoria that swept through you when ball hit bat and you know you scored a hit.. baseball had been his passion all his life. He'd never been like the other kids - dreaming of space or oceans.. he had always wanted to be a baseball player. And it seemed he was born to be one to. He had pure natural skill - he played like an old hand at it. The game came to him naturally. It didn't seem anything special to him that he was good at it - it only seemed Natural. It was a part of life, wasn't it? An intricate piece of the puzzle specifically woven in place to give meaning to itself and to the whole. His life came together when he played. Everything just.. seemed to be clear all of a sudden, and made sense. Yeah, baseball was in his veins, like that old cliched term made any sense. But then, it had taken it's toll on the rest of his life too. He had two kids, Amy, 12, and Terry, 7. He had missed most of their tiny lives so far. He'd always left Ashley to look after things. It wasn't fair on him - he was always touring with his team. His family was something like a picture postcard - "wish you were here to be our dad. love, your kids." But it definitely wasn't fair on her either. She was a working woman - rather a dull job in his opinion, chief accountant at SysOp. But Ashley somehow loved numbers. They seemed to be alive to her, the way just a change in one digit could give new meaning to something. Numbers could make or break so many deals, so many lives. Numbers was how he even met her.. she was doing her graduation project on player statistics and had developed a new system to analyze existing scores to predict future ones, which considered more than 15 variables as compared to the current system that used a maximum of 5. She'd been bending over some files when he walked by to the soda machine to get himself something, and out of courtesy he had asked her if she wanted anything. Workaholic Ashley had said 'no'. She was probably one of those Diet Soda people, he thought. What was the point to those drinks anyhow? One could never quite explain how someone thought up creating soft drinks. It was one of those things, like one couldn't explain who was the real prisoner - the one behind bars staring out or the one outside staring in. Puzzling, really. 7:37 PM "STRIKE! YOU'RE OUT!" Ah. The proverbial call of the wild. He was next. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. In his ear. In his head. In his stomach. Oh, wait, the heart was just supposed to be in his chest cavity right.. oh yeah, his senses had been heightened by the adrenalin and he was now pretty much conscious of every little action his body was making. Like the drop of sweat that oozed out of a pore in his forehead, mingled with the juices of the other local pores, and rolled down the side of his cheek and fell off his chin on to his shirt, getting absorbed into the material. How short a life it led. Even something meant as waste, had a purpose. And met it's end. He envied it. It led but a short existence - he doubted how a drop of sweat could be conscious of it's own Being. But it's very being had meaning. Purpose. And it met it's end serving that purpose. 7:38 PM His name had just been announced over the speakers. The crowd had realised, and had slowly started picking up the rhythm. "Don.. Lee.. Don.. Lee.. Don.. Lee.." it was like the whole auditorium was a living thing and this was the beat of it's heart, it's pulse. The whole stadium was a living organism, and each component, each appendage, was marching to it's own song yet beating in tune with the overall rhythm. He got up, his legs feeling like lead. He walked over to the starter's point, in front of the pitcher. It seemed like an eternity to get there. He remembered Amy's first baseball experience. Terry's too. He'd been there for those. He'd had no choice, of course. After all, he was playing the game and they'd come to watch. He remembered later how Ashley had held Amy up for her to place a kiss on daddy's nose and say, "daddy why do all of them want the ball hit? Why can't they just leave it alone? It's just a ball.." Terry had taken to it more enthusiastically.. "daddy when can I start playing?" He had tried to be there for his kids. That he had failed miserably was not quite beside the point. He hadn't much of what they called family values. His family hadn't liked the whole idea of Sports. They'd wanted him to become a respectable doctor, or even a banker. But Donlee knew he was meant for baseball, and baseball was meant for him. He'd been born to play the game and he had played, but boy had the game played him too. He had joined the leagues in the hope of carving out a life of his own, away from control by anyone else. He figured if he tried something and it didn't work out, he could happily say "mea culpa" and accept his failure. But if he didn't try something because someone else had told him how to run his life, well he didn't think he'd be so happy with the dreaded "what if" question later on. He'd had a dream, and he'd followed it so far. But things were starting to change. He was a tired man. He had started having qualms about exactly how playing baseball, albeit for his state, justified his negligence of other equally, probably more important things. He couldn't quite come up with an answer to that. And that sort of worried him. Maybe that settled things. He'd reached the pitch. The throbbing in his head had reached a crescendo now. The same orchestra played every time he got into a game. With the same old tempo. He knew it well. Some players used to say that as they got onto the pitch that day they imagined what the best they could do was, and then spent the rest of the time in the diamond trying to do whatever it was they had visualised. Donlee had never hoped for a star performance each time. He had never had high ambitions or hopes. He just went out there to do whatever it was that came to him. That may have worked for baseball but it definitely didn't say the same for this other game they happened to called Life. Not the board game, although that was a rather interesting way to pass time. The real thing was far more addictive than baseball could ever be. You could get high on life and never be able to let go. That was supposed to be a good thing. You had to get out there, see what you could be, and then spend your life trying to achieve your dream. But it didn't always work out that way. There were always 'things'. To keep you from seeing your dreams to fruition. But these things somehow paled in comparison to the exhilaration felt at seeing something and then actualising it. One rarely got the courage to follow one's dream though. There were too many chances of getting hurt. 7:39 PM The game had started for him. As he managed to notch up a coupla runs in his first innings his confidence started slowly building up. He thought of his family watching the game on TV - he was after all on the other side of the continent. He wondered what they'd be thinking. He knew his time was coming. There was always that one moment in a sportsperson's life when he weighed everything that happened to be there just then in his life, and see how things came up. If he had a momentary doubt about his game, it was time for him to start thinking. Donlee had started thinking a while back, but he'd never had the guts to just leave. He had wanted to go out with a bang, but everytime he notched up a high score he just wanted more. His grandfather had once said, "the defining quality of any smart person is not knowing what to do or what not to do, but knowing when to call it quits." Donlee didn't think himself very smart at the moment. 7:41 PM He was back at the striker's end again. He'd had enough by now. They said one shouldn't mix drinking and driving. Well, one shouldn't mix thinking and playing. Lethal combination, that. Didn't allow a person to do either task well. Donlee saw the ball coming and lunged at it with his bat.. he nearly keeled over. As he tried to maintain his balance, he heard a voice scream out, "STRIKE! ONE.. two more and you're out." So, this was it. One down, two to go, and he still hadn't had his bang yet. He didn't want to be forgotten as one of the usuals who made it big, played it big, and then left, and died in some obscure place sometime. Everyone wanted to be remembered. Our actions in our time had far-reaching consequences, and it was those that defined how one would be remembered. We never quite died out when we were being remembered. It was satisfying to know that absence made for fonder acknowledgement. But if you never really did anything worthwhile, and you weren't around all that long, he didn't think there would be anything to remember him by. He had to look after his family at some point. He just didn't know when. And that made him miss the next ball too. Things were at fever pitch now. He had one shot left, and very little time. As the pitcher readied himself for his next ball, Donlee had a sudden vision of Amy as he remembered her, with her Raggedy Ann doll in one hand, asking him when he was going to be back. Soon, he had said. It had been awhile since he'd said that. He realised he wouldn't be feeling so strongly about something unless it really was pricking him. And this was. He'd decided. As the ball came whooshing at him, he visualised all of them at a park, just lazing and fooling around. Man could never make it alone.. he always needed other people along with him, even if only to cheer from the sidelines. He gave the next shot his all, somewhere in the corner of his brain registering the thump of ball against bat, his body ready to absorb the shock from the shot. He dully saw the whole stadium rise, and the fielders slow down to a stop. Through some haze, he heard as though far off the announcer's voice booming, "IT'S A HOMER!" as his teammates came charging onto the field euphorically. They'd won. As he was being lifted onto their shoulders, he thought of his wife and kids (would they be screaming in front of the television set?) and then decided. He was going home. posted by ryder |
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| in-my-opinion.orgEntertainment & SportsMy own pic, my own art, my short storyThe Pitch Called Life |
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ew ew ew what's this icky font.. nwooo...  
(sorry knn but again) posted by ryder |
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अच्छ! 
You have an excellent sense of pacing and tension...and also it has a stream-of-consciousness quality that I like... The font does not detract at all from the story... posted by holy_of_holies |
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holy_of_holies: अच्छ! Shukriya! holy_of_holies: The font does not detract at all from the story... Oh that's okay then. I thought it might negate any effect the story had, by being so large and.. cursive. Maybe I should write s'more and post and see if I actually have a 'style' or if I keep fluctuating. I wouldn't call this a 'typical piece' but I don't have a type in the first place
Thanks! posted by ryder |
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 Very good stuff, ryder! 
As someone who has had the privilage of playing baseball at a highly competive level and then walked away, you really touch on a lot of the emotions that go through your mind. There are a few instances I noticed that show, like you said, your rudimentary baseball knowledge can be cleaned-up very easily if you're interested...just let me know. posted by GP |
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GP: your rudimentary baseball knowledge can be cleaned-up very easily if you're interested Yes I am quite seriously, I don't know much about this game but I'd like to. We don't really get to see baseball matches on tv either, because where I used to live the sports channels didn't telecast any, and where I live now we don't get cable at all because it's too expensive .
posted by ryder |
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OK...In a little while, I'll PM you w/some problem areas I noticed and explain how you can improve them. posted by GP |
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 I liked it...like GP said, I can relate to the same emotions (I play softball). I would say though--I know GP pmed you some tips--that Donlee sounded more like a rookie. I liked how you cut in and out of the story, never lingering too long on one view, letting the reader guess. posted by sangu |
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I liked it...like GP said, I can relate to the same emotions (I play softball). I would say though--I know GP pmed you some tips--that Donlee sounded more like a rookie. I liked how you cut in and out of the story, going off on random thoughts, but never lingering too long on one view, letting the reader guess. posted by sangu |
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The time now is 22 August 2008, 04:25 php B.B. |