The Catch
by Jean L. Kreiling
The Catch
This moment was exactly what he needed: the foul ball sailed right toward him, whitely spinning against a pure blue sky, and he succeeded in catching it. By then, the seventh inning, he'd thought of going home: the Sox were down by four, the game had not improved his mood, the traffic on the long drive home from town would be a nightmare. But his attitude now brightened. Though he knew it was a small, inconsequential thing, an accident of arm and bat and physics and how tall he was—he'd stood and reached—he was content to savor this small win with childlike glee, pretending not to mourn its brevity. He'd long since learned that mourning brevity would only amplify its cruel truth. He didn't dwell on the indignity of life's rude rush, although it seemed his youth was just as recent as last week's shutout against the Yankees. He must have been eight the first time he came here, his dad about half his age now. And that day had been great, but it went by so fast, as did his years of Little League. He'd played shortstop; his skills were good enough to earn praise from his peers. He loved the game—the rituals, the thrills, the challenges: hit hard, run fast, impress the coach and that girl in the yellow dress. He noticed that girl in the yellow dress because she noticed him—or so he thought. She really watched left field and the success of her big brother, counting flies he caught. Years later, she showed up in English class; they walked to math together. She shed light on trig and calculus; she helped him pass with problems based on stats and balls in flight. By senior year, when he played varsity, she really did watch him. He'd find her eyes and find his confidence. They would agree on movies, politics, which pizza pies were best, and when to marry. First they’d get degrees and jobs, then share a kitchenette. Her finance job meant that the kitchenette would quickly give way to gourmet machines and more square feet, but they’d never forget what mattered, what began before their teens. They hosted family holidays, invited old friends for noisy summer barbecues, and went to Fenway often, still excited to watch their hometown team play, win or lose. To play pro ball had been his childhood dream, but he had other passions, too. He turned to teaching; while he coached the high school team, he also taught them English. And they learned to love Jack London, Hemingway, and Poe— as he did in that class so long ago. That English class they’d shared so long ago had changed his life. There they’d become a pair, there he’d discovered he wanted to know much more about sonnets and stories, there he’d started to grow up. And now he’d grown quite old. And without her—gone two years now. He dreaded growing older on his own; he wasn’t sure he knew exactly how. They’d had no children, although they had tried— his kids were those he’d coached, now grown and gone— and most of his family and hers had died; he woke up solitary, every single dawn. He did his best to wake up grateful, too: he was among the lucky ones, he knew. He’d had so many lucky years—but knew the worst of luck as well. First she forgot their neighbor’s name, then how to tie a shoe, and then the way home. He knew this was not just normal aging. He did what he could— made home a safe place, did the chores she’d done, and made her laugh—but soon he understood that he was losing her, that he could not outrun, outplay, outsmart this illness. Afterwards, he felt that he’d died, too. He’d sleep too late, get up and have some coffee, feed the birds as she had, read a page or two, then wait for his own breath to cease. Good friends became a lifeline—sharing meals, long walks, a game. He went with friends to Fenway—but this game he’d come to by himself. So when he caught that foul ball, there was no one to exclaim about his reflexes, his skill. The moment brought some pleasure anyway. And then one row ahead of him, a disappointed face appeared—a boy of eight years old or so, who’d turned to see who’d managed to erase his own imagined triumph, who had nabbed the ball he’d reached for. But before the kid could blink, the ball was his. The man had grabbed a better prize: he tossed the ball, undid the boy’s defeat, gained far more than he ceded. This moment was exactly what he needed.
Poet’s note
I’m not a sports fan at all, but I’m drawn to the human interest stories that sometimes appear in that section of the newspaper; “The Catch” is my entirely fictional version of such a story. Inspired by the ubiquity of the Red Sox in the news here in New England, I imagined a potentially poetic moment in Fenway Park, and from there enjoyed inventing an entire life.
Jean L. Kreiling is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently Home and Away; her work has been awarded the Able Muse Book Award, the Frost Farm Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, and the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, among other honors. She lives on the coast of Massachusetts.