POTLATCH
POTLATCH #5
Released July 20, 2014 3:35 PM
TOKYO DOME
The first time my older brother’s let me join them for hardball I was only 4 or 5 years old. They were playing a game out on the street in front of our house, a game called “3 FLIES UP.” This was a game where one guy would throw the ball up and hit fly balls it into the air and repeat this thrill until one of the other guys out in the “field” caught three balls, at which point it would be that guy’s turn to bat. Back in the day, we played this game everywhere and anywhere. It would always suffice when you didn’t have enough players for a real game of baseball, which was mostly all the time. At age 4 or 5, I was too small to compete against the other boys, so as I was standing on the curb that day, watching my brothers and their friends with full intent. Until, for some reason, the older boys showed pity on me and gave me a real glove and let me join them. Of course, I struggled under their higher stretched gloves and never caught anything until, as older brothers sometimes do, they parted a very high flying ball and let me have it all to myself. Why this ball, who knows? The ball was toweringly high in my memory now, and I know at that point in my life I had zero experience attempting to use a glove for such a purpose as to catch such a dangerous thing as it descended like a missile. The ball got on me so fast that I never saw it. But I felt it. It missed my glove and struck me square in the eye. With a sickening thud. This was the glorious moment of my first black eye. My brothers were on me even faster than the ball. They lifted me up on their shoulders like I had just won the World Series. They were so impressed with my heroic intent and determination they carried me into the house to regale my mother with the triumphant story. They’re elation kept me from crying. It didn’t matter if I caught the ball or not. What mattered was my new-found courage. The confidence I gained was boundless.
POTLATCH #5
Released July 20, 2014 3:35 PM
TOKYO DOME
The first time my older brother’s let me join them for hardball I was only 4 or 5 years old. They were playing a game out on the street in front of our house, a game called “3 FLIES UP.” This was a game where one guy would throw the ball up and hit fly balls it into the air and repeat this thrill until one of the other guys out in the “field” caught three balls, at which point it would be that guy’s turn to bat. Back in the day, we played this game everywhere and anywhere. It would always suffice when you didn’t have enough players for a real game of baseball, which was mostly all the time. At age 4 or 5, I was too small to compete against the other boys, so as I was standing on the curb that day, watching my brothers and their friends with full intent. Until, for some reason, the older boys showed pity on me and gave me a real glove and let me join them. Of course, I struggled under their higher stretched gloves and never caught anything until, as older brothers sometimes do, they parted a very high flying ball and let me have it all to myself. Why this ball, who knows? The ball was toweringly high in my memory now, and I know at that point in my life I had zero experience attempting to use a glove for such a purpose as to catch such a dangerous thing as it descended like a missile. The ball got on me so fast that I never saw it. But I felt it. It missed my glove and struck me square in the eye. With a sickening thud. This was the glorious moment of my first black eye. My brothers were on me even faster than the ball. They lifted me up on their shoulders like I had just won the World Series. They were so impressed with my heroic intent and determination they carried me into the house to regale my mother with the triumphant story. They’re elation kept me from crying. It didn’t matter if I caught the ball or not. What mattered was my new-found courage. The confidence I gained was boundless.