by Peter Schmidt

“Lob it as hard as you can!”

He stood in the woodchips beside the pine trees. The backyard was so big. I remember thinking I could get lost in the back, where the roots of the flowers and trees sunk deep into the ground.

I was standing in the green grass that was cut so precisely. Every strand was identical. Each a perfect thread of emerald. I used to think it was beautiful.

The air was soft with the slightest tinge of gasoline, the sweat of leaf blowers and lawnmowers doing their work. The clouds had stopped their drifting to look down at our game. The birds, too, were watching. They chirped and tweeted approvingly, praising my vast improvements over the years.

I took a step forward, firing my cannon. My arm let go at the perfect moment and the ball took flight. Despite my efforts, he still had to take a few steps forward. He scooped up the ball just before it hit the grass.

The man trotted toward me, the ball held firmly in his glove. I loved his glove. It was old and kind. It conformed to whatever position he desired. It was nothing like mine. My glove was spiteful. It seemed to laugh at my most desperate pleas. I hated it. Its name was Chester. I only gave it a name because he wanted me to. He was probably trying to get us to make peace. But he didn’t know that I hate the name Chester.

“Good job! Why don’t you pitch some to me?”

He patted me on the back, and for a moment I could smell him. I loved that smell. It was so natural, yet so peaceful. I, on the other hand, smelled disgusting. I always smelled like sweat, but he always smelled like devotion.

I jogged to the opposite end of the lawn. My legs were longer, but still chubby and it took a long time. When I finally reached it I prepared to throw the ball. I stopped, realizing that I might do it wrong.

“How do I pitch the way they do in the big leagues, dad?”

“Like this.”

He slowly went over the movements. I followed him as best I could but while his movements were smooth, mine were still awkward. I was getting better though. I went over the steps in my head, visualizing his flawless execution, before attempting the pitch myself.

I fell over, throwing the ball frantically as I hit the ground. It landed in the bushes.

“I got it,” he called. My spill hadn’t been as bad as I thought it would be. I did, however, tear up some of the grass as my feet scuffed the ground.

I felt bad about that. My dad was so meticulous about keeping up its appearance. I tried my best to pat the grass down, but it was torn clear out. It would die. And it was entirely my fault.

My father returned to his position and tossed it back to me. I caught it, but I almost fell over as I rushed forward to do so. If I had bent another blade of grass I never would’ve forgave myself. I always begged to play baseball in the driveway, but now I realize that he didn’t want to ruin the moment. It was wonderful, nothing could be better, and people don’t play catch on asphalt.

I repeated the steps again, this time more successfully, and threw the ball straight. The force almost knocked him over as he caught it. Looking back, I think he faked it. I think he was trying to boost my spirits, to keep me from giving up.

“WOW!” he shouted. “With a little more practice you could be a major league pitcher!”

“Do you really think so?” I was smiling, even though I didn’t want to be a major league pitcher. Whenever I played baseball, I would get bored after the 2^nd inning.

“Watch out! I’m going to put some heat on it!” he hollered. I pounded my fist into my glove and dug my feet into the ground. My dad’s arm snapped and the ball left his fingers. But just as it did I saw something.

It was an image: a man holding a woman I don’t know. It was my dad, but he wasn’t my dad. Instead of being with me, he was with someone else: someone who mattered much more to him than I did.

My eyes left the ball and wandered down to the lawn. It would be so much easier to be part of that world. A world where someone with dedication and a pair of clippers could make sure that I turned out just right. I wanted to be a blade of grass.

But that isn’t reality.

I had to find my own way. Even if it meant I could never have utopia. The grass was perfect, but only because he had shears. Grass is meant to be tall.

My head snapped back as the ball hit me. I fell to my knees and began to sob. I cried and cried, but not because of the lump on my head. Slowly he made his way toward me, moving carefully, as though approaching wild animal.

“Son, are you ok?”

He put a powerful hand on my shoulder and his scent wafted into my nostrils. I pushed him away and fell back, landing sprawled over the grass.

“It doesn’t hurt!” I shouted.

“It’s all right to cry,” he reasoned.

I stood up and wiped the tears from my face. I looked for the ball, picked it up, and walked it over to him. As I went, a single tear fell from my face and bent a blade of grass.

“I don’t want to play this game.”

And I never did again.

“The American Pastime” by Peter Schmidt is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.