Casey and the Bat

Michael Betzold

McGwire goes into his famous crouch and I'm looking in for the sign. Curve ball. Sounds reasonable. Then it hits me all at once and my knees almost buckle: Shit, girl, this is it. All the trash talk is over, now can you really perform? Am I really good enough or am I here, like Ray Tyrus always said, just as a novelty?

I hear a heckler's voice in the stands, and it sounds dry and husky like his: "Hey, Casey, go back to the kitchen where you belong." But as I break from my stretch and rear back to throw, I sense another overwhelming presence. I feel bathed in a warm green light.

There seems to be a golden presence in the green light, a young woman, striding off a mound like me, her presence yellowed like an old newspaper clipping. I get an overwhelming feeling that I'm not the first raw female rookie pitcher to be facing the top slugger in baseball in the glare of a harsh media spotlight. I hear dozens of cameras clicking as I rear back to deliver my first pitch.

As I go over the top, I feel the gold-green force guiding my arm, giving it extra energy. The pitch floats in there, and for a moment it seems to hang, and I think that McGwire's going to hit it into the lake. Then it drops like a weight is pulling it down, and McGwire swings mightily and
misses.

The crowd is hooting and hollering. As I get the ball back from the catcher, I hear my dad's bellowing baritone: "That-a-way, Casey. You're in charge." That's true. I have the ball. You have to get past my repertoire of pitches, my ability, my confidence. You have to outsmart me. And just because the greatest home run hitter of this era is up to bat, facing the First Woman in the Major Leagues in her first spring training game, doesn't mean he wins just by stepping into the box. No. He has to get past me. And nothing he's done up until now can change that. Not if I don't let it. Now the smile is gone from McGwire's face, replaced by an icy determination. He's all business now. No fun and games any more. He's not going to be embarrassed by a girl.

The catcher calls for a fastball but sets up outside. A good idea. Maybe McGwire's so eager he'll go fishing. Keep it low, or he'll drive it. I set. Once again I feel the green-gold presence guiding me, and this time there is the sensation of a long-ago, sunnier, younger time, of newspaper reporters wearing fedoras with cardboard on top of their boxy cameras. The pitch comes hard and fast, low and outside. McGwire twitches a little, has a thought, and suppresses it.

As I get the ball back, I am flushed with a feeling of vigor and confidence. These words flood over me: You don't have to fight any more. I am guided by an unseen hand, protected by a cocoon of invulnerability, immune to hurt, unaffected by what others say and think.

The rest proceeds as if in a dream. Another wide one for ball two. Then a sneaky fastball, busting him inside and up, a mighty swing, and a perplexed look on his face that says: What happened? That was my pitch to hit. I should have crushed it. How did I miss it? I wonder the same thing, but I don't care to question now. Whatever happens, happens. The force is with me. I am utterly possessed.

As I deliver my next pitch, I am aware the runner is breaking for second. I am also aware that I am not a pioneer. I am not the first. An overwhelming dj vu floods over me. I, we have been here before. I, we have done this already. I, we don't have anything to prove. I, we have always been capable, have always belonged here, have always mattered, have always been able to compete. Nothing important is holding us back, nothing of consequence is in our way. Here we go again, here it comes again, the scene is re-enacted, the slider streams out and bends, like light refracting through a prism, a little kink in the trajectory that takes it over the plate knee-high, and the man, the Man, is frozen, is aghast, his face is contorted, he cannot believe he is not swinging, his mind is aghast at his body's inaction, the shame is washing over him from feet to face, the Man is shamed, the Man is beaten at his own game, the Yin pushes back the Yang, the Earth force holds his feet down, immobilizes him, the witches pin his arms back, the priests tie him to the stake, the fire licks at his ankles, he cannot move, he cannot conquer, he is conquered, he is defeated, he is struck out, the Mighty Man is down, the King is dead, Mighty Casey has struck him out. There rises a fresh wind from center field, a cooling breeze, a gentle change of air currents, a shift in the center of gravity, a crack in the cosmic egg, a realignment of the tectonic plates, a planetary conjunction, a black hole in the universe, for the umpire is calling strike three. McGwire grimaces at him, lowers his head, the inning
is over, the crowd is on its feet cheering, and I look up at the green-gold sky and take off my hat to acknowledge the cheers, and my long woman's hair spills out, spills down, spills across the field and into the stands, like a wave of gold-green water, good water, tasty water, something fresh, something new, something exhilirating, and all the musty old habit of a
century of rigidity is washed away in an instant, and again we are all exactly where we are supposed to be, playing together, at last, just like when we were kids.