Kintsugi (#6)

I’m writing the story of my life in fragments. These are the memories that stuck.

1981

We were terrified of Kenny Stone. 

He was bigger than all of us for starters, but that was true for most of the Enfield little league team. Even by country standards, these were country boys: taller, thicker, earlier to mature. 

But Kenny was the pitcher, which meant we had to stand in the batter’s box against him, twice a season, helpless, as he reared back and threw faster than anyone we had ever seen.

Every time I faced him, I struck out. 

We all did, and usually in the fastest possible way: Three pitches. Three pusillanimous swings. And a sense of relief that our turn in the order had passed.

But in the last game of the 1981 season, Alex Merrow hit a fluke triple. He’d swung so late that he flared it to a forgotten part of the field, but simply seeing someone in red on base felt like the breaking of a spell. And as each of us entered the batter’s box from then on, something approaching confidence passed between us.

I led off the next inning.

I loosened my grip, and picked up my right foot earlier than I ever had before, to try and time the speed of his pitches.

I fouled the first two off. 

I took the next pitch. Ball. 

I took two more. Full count. 

Kenny stared me down for the payoff pitch. And this time, I stared back.

There is a larger story here -- of a nail-biting 4-3 victory, and the vanquishing of an ultimate opponent -- but this memory is not about all of that.

It’s about that one at-bat, and that final pitch, and me timing my swing just right, and the feeling of hitting a solid single up the middle.

Against Kenny fucking Stone.