The Batting Coach

Our house was modestly sized with an unusual amount of residents. Across the street from our house was an immodest house with an unusual but small assortment of residents.  The owner was, at the time of this story, my Dad's boss.  He owned the  contract to maintain several grounds and properties, including Port Alberni's cemetery.  Dad worked for a short while for Mr H. and was employed by him during the following event. Mr H. had a wife, a large hovering woman with big hair and wringing hands.  She watched carefully over Mr H. and regularly entertained an assortment of similar looking women who were frequent and highly opinionated visitors.   I assumed they might be her sisters, but I didn't ever ask.  Her mission in life was to watch over Frankie. Frankie was always overdressed for the weather, Frankie always carried a handkerchief, Frankie only deigned to eat certain foods and happily eschewed anything not on his select list of palatables.  Frankie was not prone to doing things on his own or without close adult supervision.  Frankie was not an athlete. Bill and I were on the road between our houses playing a game we invented.  We had a partly broken baseball bat and a baseball glove that had three large fingers and a  tiny patch of worn leather connecting the thumb.  The one with the glove tossed the ball to the batter who tapped out a grounder back to the gloved one.  After a while roles switched and we traded equipment.  Even at four years old Bill could hold his own in this and any other game I dragged him into. We stopped and moved aside so Mr H. could drive his car into his driveway.  Dad was his passenger.  They were talking. After dinner Dad asked me if I could show Frankie how to hit a baseball.  Frankie's dad had seen us playing our grounder game but was more intrigued by the "Hit the Bat - Catch a Fly - You're up" game he had also seen us playing.  Apparently Frankie had explained to him that he wasn't playing because he couldn't hit a baseball and, well, if your son could just give him a few pointers.... Dad had no idea what he was asking.  I tried, without success, to explain what a hopeless failure Frankie was at anything requiring hand-eye coordination.  Finally I agreed and said I would help him out next chance I got. Frankie's dad hurried the process along.  Within a few days Frankie emerged from his house, freshly scrubbed, hair combed, over dressed and gripping tightly a new bat, which he held by the wrong end, and a brand new baseball.  His mother's face occupied the second floor window.  I took a long breath as I headed over to meet him. The bat felt good in my hands.  You didn't have to hold it in any special way to avoid splinters, it had a solid but light weight.  I wanted to try it first so I convinced Frankie I needed to break it in for him.  Bill gave him our glove to hold and moved back to catch a few pop ups and field some grounders.  After standing part way between us Frankie moved back to where Bill was and did a good job of staying out of his way.  Shortly we were joined by Marty S who lived three houses away. Bill took a turn, Marty took a turn, and then it was time for Frankie to try. Up to now we had been tossing the ball to ourself and swinging lightly to the fielders.  Frankie tried.  He really did.  Mrs. H. remained fixed and ready in her observation post as Frankie repeatedly tossed the ball in the air and waved the bat harmlessly over it, under it, after it, before it, but never actually at it.  anyone who has played Hit the Bat or 500 Up knows how boring this can be for a trio of eager fielders holding a brace of trusty gloves. We decided to try having Frankie hold the bat with two hands and one of us would pitch to him.  Hopeless. "Show me how," he asked. "Step over there."  I swung the bat slowly around to demonstrate the range.  "Don't come any closer." I held the ball on my shoulder with my right hand.  I tossed the ball in the air just over my head with my left hand and moved my hand up to the bat to grip and swing.  My bat struck the ball and it sailed smoothly into the air towards Bill and Marty.  My bat also struck Frankie's head on the follow through and he fell swiftly backwards onto the ground behind me. Frankie followed directions as well as he hit a baseball. Frankie's mother was over him before he hit the turf.  "Look what you've done!" she hollered.  "Frankie. Frankie baby, momma's here." (I actually do not know what she said,  at this point I was in a bit of shock myself.)  I stood holding the bat, Marty, who had smoothly settled under the pop fly and made a nice routine catch stood holding the ball in his mitt, and the three of us watched Frankie's limp body being carried into his house. When Dad got home he wanted to talk to me.  The point of the talk was that I had to apologize for what I did to Frankie.  He was not interested in hearing details. For a few days I avoided going out the front way.  Dad made it clear every night that he was losing patience with me.  Mrs H. and her cohort loomed in the big window and watched my every move.  Their yelling at me didn't encourage me to pop by any time soon.  I just couldn't muster up what it took to go over there and apologize.  I felt I had done nothing wrong - it was his fault for being so stupid.  But I did have a bat that didn't belong to me. I decided it was time to return it and offer an apology. Little boys are fascinated with the human body, especially if something about it is unusual or out-of-place.  Medical anomalies, Guinness Book of records, Circus freaks - all rich with material to study and discuss in detail.  Frankie's head was fascinating.  Lump shape, colour hues, lopsided forehead....  I knew it was Frankie under there somewhere, lying on the couch.  Before I could say anything... "Don't you have something to say to my Frankie?" "I'm sorry Frankie." Silence.  Maybe he's struck mute.  Brain damage. "Frankie?" She asked while her cohort continued to glare at the little savage before them clutching the evil bat in his malevolent hand. "OK." he murmured. "He said, 'OK'". Alright then. I guess we're done here, I thought. "Joe?" came the voice from the boy on the couch. "Yeah?" "Can you still help me learn to hit a baseball?"