Who: Roger Isley What: Narrative of him sneaking away during a frat party When: Saturday night Where: campus baseball field Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Roger couldn't stay at the party. Once it got going, once everyone had pretty much arrived, he was easily lost in the sea of people. No one wanted to know how his summer was in California. No one cared that he put together the entire party practically himself. No one wanted to hand him drinks or pat him on the back because they were just happy to see him. Everyone just forgot he was there because he was old hat. So, without telling anyone, he grabbed his bat, a basket full of balls and snuck out the back to trek across campus to the baseball field.
With his dress shirt loose and dirty, cap backwards and steel basket full of baseballs sitting a couple feet away, he cracked ball after ball into the night. No one was there to see the white sphere shoot up towards the sky like a rocket and then fall (with style) down somewhere in the outfield like a meteor. No one had a scorecard ready to write down if he was hitting home runs, maverick foul balls or dicey grounders. He wished he could feel comforted by it. He wished he could just enjoy throwing the ball up like he was playing tennis and smacking them off wherever they wanted to go without having someone there cheering him on.
"I need a dog." Roger says as if there's someone standing next to him and raises his voice like the invisible person started walking away. "Want me to hit it to first base? I can do that! Want me to hit the pitcher? I can do that, too." He had focus and form when he swung the bat, shooting the ball like a bullet over the pitcher's mound.
"Pop fly? Yeah, those are beautiful, but they don't do shit if they get caught." Roger looks up at the ball and slowly swings the bat, making the ball shoot up and gently fall somewhere in left field. "Oh, but the outfielder is a total douchebag, almost catches Isley's pop fly, but drops it!" Roger's voice picks up like he's the announcer. "Now he's scrambling for the ball and Isley decides to make a run for it! This kid's got balls the size of Texas!" Roger drops the bat and scrambles toward first base. "Oh, but that douchebag manages to pick up the ball and throw it to first!" Roger slides toward first, placing his gloved hands on the white square like it was a pot of gold. "AND THE FIRST BASEMAN MISSED THE BALL! WHAT A MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE!" Roger yells as he jumps to his feet and races towards second, then rounds to third. He stops, looking around the empty baseball park like it was filled with players, then waves to his invisible fans.
"Isley is safe, but he's bold. He's a bold motherfucker. Now the pitcher has the ball and the next batter is up. Oh, but he's not nearly as talented as Isley, no not by a fucking long shot! He's probably going to fuck things up for everyone. The only chance is if Isley steals home, but can he do it?" The question hung in the air as Roger when silent. Looking at the invisible pitcher, he mouthed a couple of obscenities his way and then winked to the pitcher's invisible mother in the stands. "AND NOW THE PITCHER IS CHARGING ISLEY! THERE'S ONLY ONE THING HE CAN DO!" And, that one thing is, of course- run. Kicking up dirt, Roger sprinted toward home, looking over his shoulder with wide eyes and then moved faster to making a winning dive and slide. He slid as far as he could and then crawled to home, hugging the base like it was a lifesaver.
"SAFE!" Roger shouted in a gruff voice and he jumped to his feet, pumping his fists in the air. "ISLEY WON THE WORLD SERIES. HIS TEAM CLEARLY OWES HIM A LOT!" He yelled in his announcer voice as he did a small victory lap along with the call of his invisible audience. "Oh Roger have my babies! Roger, sign my tits!" He shook his head and put his hands on his hips. "Sorry ladies, there's only one pair of tits I plan to sign tonight." He winks and smiles brightly. But, then everything is gone. The crowd. The players. The announcers. His smile fades as he looks around again, deciding that he'd be happy if someone caught him playing pretend like that. At least then he'd have someone to talk to.
Roger rubbed the back of his neck and walked past the diamond and out into the grass, sinking down to his knees and then rolling over on his back as he pawed for a nearby baseball to throw in the air. He hated the stars. Wished he could hit them all out with baseballs. Wished he could make them come crashing down around him in bright shattering pieces. He wouldn't even care if he got caught under them, just as long as he could take them out one by one.