The Legless Catcher

Posted on June 14, 2007

By the time we finally won a championship, we were twenty years deep into the war and nobody cheered, because everybody was either dead or dying. We were replacement players, called in because we were unfit to be soldiers, but just fit enough to be able to squeeze into uniforms and put on a show for the people. All the real players had been sent overseas. Their unions had resisted at first, but in the end, public pressure forced them to cave; our freedom was on the line and these were our greatest athletes. They had to go.

The league contracted to ten teams and then loaded the rosters with all of the army’s rejects. Most of us were fat and diabetic, or had bad hearts or were too old to fight. Others were considered defective. Our pitcher only had one arm; he played without a glove and we always prayed that no one would hit a liner right back at him. The first baseman was blind in one eye. The shortstop was a burn victim, his skin a grotesque canvas of purples and reds. I was the catcher. They put me there because I had no legs—I was the first pro catcher in history who didn’t have knee problems. The irony, chuckling broadcasters liked to mention, was that I’d actually lost my legs in the war, way back when it started. I never really thought it was that funny.

We were worse than a high school team, but still good enough to win the World Series. Everybody in the league had played when they were younger, but had given up their dreams long ago. Now, we were paid like superstars to play ball worse than our children would. I made six million a year, despite the fact that every base runner we ever allowed had stolen second base; without my legs, I had a hard time throwing anyone out. But I was considered underpaid.

By this time, the country’s biggest expenses were, in order, defense and pro sports. I don’t remember what was third. Whatever it was, it didn’t get much attention. Everyone was so preoccupied with the war and the World Series that we barely even noticed that the rest of the country was crumbling beneath our feet.

Three years ago, the champion had gotten a standing ovation from a stadium packed with over 100,000 people. The next year, the number had been cut in half. Only 100 people watched us win the championship. They looked so tiny and helpless up in the stands that I thought they might blow away like confetti. They watched in grim silence as the game unfolded. I heard them coughing sometimes, during breaks between the generic rock music that blared through the stadium, but they never cheered, booed, or even clapped.

The final out came on a collision at the plate—the guy bowled me over, because I couldn’t very well stand my ground. Everyone on the field thought we’d both died at home plate. The guy who barreled into me was at least seventy and he could barely run. He hit the ground with an awful whump, like a corpse dropped out of a helicopter, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Our teammates, crying, rushed out to us, and, even though they saw that I still had the ball, they didn’t feel right cheering. Even when the other guy choked out a weak breath, and I lifted the ball triumphantly, we were silent. It still didn’t feel right to cheer; in fact, it hadn’t felt right for years, but it wasn’t until then that we realized how wrong we’d been all along.

When we Knew the World Was Going to End

Posted on April 4, 2007

When the national anthem began, we stood as one, hats flipped off of heads, hands over hearts, eyes on the field where the President stood, and we really listened to the words again, after years of ignoring them, sipping on our beers and sneaking looks down the tank tops of the underage girls two rows in front of us and whooping like idiots when the singer sang about bombs and death. We realized how sad the song is, how we’ve come to celebrate death and savagery wrapped in a cloak of godliness. And we shed a few tears—but only a few because the last few days had wrung us dry—when we asked ourselves the inevitable question: is this the same kind of song they sing before their soccer games or camel races or kabaddi or whatever they do over there? Then we remembered again. We were sure we would always remember.

The air was still thick with dust and days-old smoke, a mist washing over us, curling into our nostrils and diving into our lungs. It was relentless; no matter how hard we coughed or how often we blinked, it was still there, coming, coming, always marching toward us, and we couldn’t help but wonder what we’d just swallowed—was that just dust from a broken cinderblock that rested on our seats? Was that ash from a burning car that fell on our tongues as we breathed open-mouthed so as to avoid smelling the death in the air? Was that our fathers, brothers, sisters, neighbors dusting our hair and following us home? Read more

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