The game of baseball is inimitable among its sports companions in that the frequency of physicality varies, the experience unique to each player, each game. While instances of hard contact do occur, much of the physical interaction between players is light and in passing. It is, in fact, entirely possible that a single player could play through an entire game without ever being touched by another person.
In the morning, you turn your body sideways to pass between me and the counter on your way to the coffee pot. The burst of air created by the motion highlights the space between our skin, my arms erupting in goosebumps, each follicle of hair desperate for contact.
At dinner you bring a plate of lasagna to me in the living room while I watch the ballgame from the couch. I reach to take it from your hand, but you quickly, deftly turn away to set it on the coffee table. Instead of looking at the screen, you ask me the score and what inning it is. We briefly talk about how our pitching has been dominant, but we are still struggling. After another at-bat, I turn to ask about your day, but you are already in the other room.
In bed, I stay awake for an hour or so, listening to you fall into a deep sleep. In the silence, I reach out and press the tips of my fingers against your back; your skin quivers under my touch.
There is an inherent defensive nature to baseball. Other sports often place the priority, and indeed much of the glory, on offense. And in a sense, this is true for baseball as well, as the home run is still king among plays, and the great sluggers are often those most notably immortalized. However, where other sports exhibit equality on the field—an equal number of players on either side—baseball presents a defensive front against a lone batter, who must analyze the alignment of the fielders, the arm angle of the pitcher, and the speed and direction of the ball. Alone he must face this onslaught, the collective held-breath of the crowd an expectation that outweighs the 26.2% chance he has of success.
Before I even push back the covers to get up, you are already explaining to me why you have not done things I have not yet asked you to do. You lay out your work schedule, the friend you’ve agreed to help move, how tired you’ll be at the end of the day. You are already frustrated about the anger that is still hours away.
You arrive home as I am heading out the front door. You are an hour early, and I was supposed to be gone twenty minutes ago. I hold up one hand to keep you from blocking me in the drive and your face twists in question. Your window is down and I yell that there are leftovers in the fridge, that I’m sure I told you I wouldn’t be home tonight, that I’m running late and need to go. You put the car in reverse, slowly backing out while I watch your mind racing forward, full speed.
You do not say a word as I slide into bed, but I see that your eyes are open. On your inhale, I decide not to let you ask me where I’ve been. I remind you that I rarely go out, that I miss my friends, that they need me. When you start to reply, I shift the conversation slightly, not so far that it no longer connects to the previous, but just enough that whatever your comment may have been, it is no longer relevant.
The roaring outbursts of the crowd in a baseball stadium are all the more startling when compared to the long stretches of silence. During an at-bat, a fan in the last row of the upper deck can hear clearly the sound of the umpire calling balls and strikes. The crack of the bat against a ninety miles-per-hour fastball often comes so suddenly and violently, that even in this excitement, there is often a delay in vocal reaction, the voice of the crowd near atrophied in the moment it is needed most.
In the morning your hands are shaky from the restless sleep the old chair in the den provided you. I want to ask you why you did not come to bed, but the stillness in the room is broken instead by the sound of your coffee cup hitting the ground. Though the splash of hot liquid against my bare legs is painful, my voice has already forgotten how to cry out.
In the afternoon, I work from home, and the steady sound of the keyboard is a comforting metronome. I am in the middle of a sentence when my phone rings. You are calling me, which is unusual, and the shrillness of the generic ringtone freezes me in place. By the time I gather myself to answer, you have given up. I turn the phone to silent and resume typing.
In bed I lay alone, with eyes closed and ears straining to find any signs of life in the universe. I try to remember the rhythm and volume of your breath, the sound of your skin against cheap sheets. I wait for the creak of the third step from the top, or the turn of a key in the front door lock. But the only sound is that of a timid breeze outside the open window, and even it stops short of coming through the screen, afraid to enter for the sake of its own survival.
Suzanne McWhorter is a graduate of the NEOMFA in Cleveland, Ohio. She is currently teaching English at various universities in the Cleveland area while continuing to write. Her work has appeared in Jenny Magazine, the Pea River Journal, and Embodied Effigies.