Clothing Optional Page 12

  Barbarians at the Plate

  I’m a writer. I deal in words. When words are obvious, my job is easy. But during those inexplicable periods when my vocabulary betrays me, I just sit here, idiot dumb, unable to place words in any order due to the fact I no longer know any words. And if I don’t write, my family starves. This is worrisome. My wife and children are good people who deserve a better fate. So the pressure is enormous. Last January, I found myself immersed in just this kind of pressure when the phone rang.

  —Hello?

  —Hi, is this Alan?

  —Yes.

  —Hi, Alan. This is Normie Wax.

  —Who?

  —Normie Wax. From the league.

  —Normie Wax from what league?

  —You know, our kids’ Little League.

  —Oh, yeah. Of course. How you doin’, Normie?

  —So you know me.

  —No.

  —Sure you do.

  —I do?

  —You saw me at all of the games last season.

  —I did?

  —Sure, I’m president of the league.

  I did seem to remember one goofy guy who always walked around wearing a cap that said PREZ. The kind of cap that a grown-up named Normie Wax would, in fact, wear.

  —Are you the guy with the hat?

  —Yep, that’s me.

  —Uh-huh.

  —My boy got me that hat.

  —It’s a beauty.

  —Listen, Alan, the reason I’m calling is, I want to know if you’d consider becoming commissioner of our league.

  —You’re kidding.

  —Well, I see you down at the field all the time working with your boy. So, the guys on the board and I thought you might be a good choice for commissioner.

  —Well, first of all, let me say that I’m real flattered, Normie.

  —You’re welcome…

  —But I do have one small question.

  —Fire away, amigo.

  —Well, what exactly does the commissioner do?

  —Not much. It’s mostly administrative. You’d make the schedule for the coming season, help launch the fund-raiser, preside over the major-league draft…

  —Draft?

  —Yeah. This weekend we’ll hold tryouts, and the managers will rate the kids on how well they catch, throw, hit…

  —Uh-huh.

  —Hit for average, power, bat speed…

  —Right.

  —Bunting, stealing, how fast they run from home to first…

  —Jesus, Normie.

  —From first to second, second to third, third to home…

  —My God, Normie…

  —And how well they can turn a double play. Then on Monday night the managers will get together and draft the kids until their rosters are filled.

  I’d been to some of those tryouts, and I’d seen those managers sitting on the sidelines feverishly feeding information about prepubescent kids into their laptop computers. They take this stuff quite seriously. In their own special way, they each looked like my accountant during tax season.

  —Dad?

  —Hey, kiddo.

  —Who was that on the phone?

  —The president of your Little League.

  —The guy with the hat?

  —Yeah, he asked if I wanted to be commissioner.

  —Really?

  —Yeah.

  —Wow! Are you going to do it?

  —I said I’d call him back. What do you think? Should I?

  —Why not? I think it’d be fun.

  Diversion plays a big role in a writer’s life. It is what he seeks when he either can’t—or doesn’t want to—write. God knows, I wanted to write. I had an idea for a movie. A movie about a guy. But with no words at my disposal, I was at a loss in describing who the guy was, what he said, whom he said it to, what other people said back to him, where anyone lived, and what happened to all of them. So I figured, why not pay heed to the request of my soon-to-be-very-gaunt son and grant his last wish by becoming commissioner of his Little League?

  TRYOUTS

  —Hey, Normie.

  —What do you say, Commish? Checking out this year’s crop?

  —Yeah. Some of these kids look pretty good. I like number 921…

  —He’ll be on the Tigers.

  —Number 1046…

  —The Orioles.

  —And number 1173.

  —Phillies.

  —Wait a second, Normie. How do you know what teams these kids are going to be on two days before the draft?

  —Well, if a kid is the son of an assistant coach, then he’s on his dad’s team automatically and doesn’t have to go through the draft.

  —Is that why I see all those managers swooping down on the parents after a kid has a good tryout?

  —These guys do tend to get somewhat competitive.

  Last year, after my son tried out, a number of coaches asked if I wanted to be their assistant. Some called the house. Others offered to buy me lunch. I just figured that was because they liked me and had a high regard for my baseball acumen. Little did I know that had I played my cards right, today I might be wearing a better watch.

  THE DRAFT

  —Normie, this is amazing.

  —What do you mean?

  —The computer readouts, the doctors’ reports, the lineage charts, the huddled conferences, the trading, the debating. I never knew any of this stuff went on.

  —Always has.

  —Geez.

  —Well, only for the first three rounds or so. Until all the better players are taken. After that, it’s pretty much of a toss-up, so things will go a lot quicker.

  —Then what’s the deal with Billy Seuss?

  —What do you mean?

  —Well, with all due respect, I saw his tryout, and he’s not very good.

  —Not very good? Billy Seuss might be the most uncoordinated boy in California. The other kids call him “Polio.”

  —So then why does everyone want to get him on their team?

  —Did you ever see his mother—Connie Seuss?

  —No.

  —She’s a real looker.

  When I was growing up, I was a good ballplayer—though not as good as my son is. And certainly not as good as I tell my son I was. But I never had trouble making a team, and I was always a starting player. But now that I think about it, my mother was very pretty back then. Very, very, pretty. Oh, no. Is it possible that I was referred to as “Polio” Zweibel and wasn’t aware of it? Well, that’s just lovely.

  THE PRESEASON

  —Hello?

  —Where the hell’s the rake?

  —Excuse me?

  —You’re the new commissioner, right?

  —Right.

  —So where’s the goddamn rake?

  What rake? And since when did I become commissioner of gardening tools?

  —Who is this?

  —Gary Drummond, manager of the Pirates. Saturday’s our first game, and I need that rake because I don’t want my pitcher breaking his ankle stepping into that hole on the mound.

  —Gary?

  —Yes.

  —Your game is Saturday?

  —Yes.

  —And today is only Wednesday?

  —Yes.

  —Six-thirty in the morning on only Wednesday?

  —That’s not the point.

  —Gary?

  —Yes?

  —I can build a rake between now and Saturday!

  I usually don’t raise my voice like that, but I thought it might be a good idea to assert my new authority from the outset. You know—out of respect for the office of the commissioner. Besides, I knew who Gary Drummond was. A small guy I was fairly confident I could beat up—unless he had a rake.

  —Now look, Gary—

  —It’s that bastard Rappaport.

  —Skip Rappaport? The manager of the Astros?

  —I’ll bet you anything he took that rake out of the shed, because he’s still pissed I beat the pan
ts off him in court last week.

  —Court?

  —Yeah, we’re both attorneys, and I just know that shyster is trying to get even by breaking my best pitcher’s ankle.

  A lot of managers in this league are attorneys. During a preseason game, I saw two disputing a call made by an umpire named Jorge. They were brandishing the Little League rule book and citing the bylaws and subsections therein. For all I know, they’re still out there arguing, and Jorge, who speaks twelve words of English, is still standing there weeping.

  —Now, what the hell are you going to do about this rake business?

  —Well, Gary, I’m still sort of new at this commissioner thing, so I’ll call Normie Wax and ask him how I should handle this, and then I’ll get back to you, okay?

  —Call him now.

  —But it’s only…

  —I’m telling you, call him now, because he’ll be going into surgery in about an hour.

  —Oh, my God. What’s wrong?

  —Nothing’s wrong. He’s a surgeon.

  —Normie Wax is a surgeon?

  I had no idea Normie Wax was a cardiovascular surgeon. Or that Gary Drummond and Skip Rappaport were successful corporate attorneys. Or that Home Depot carried so many different kinds of rakes. I was learning a lot.

  —Hi, Alan. It’s me, Normie. Look, I was checking over the schedule you made for the season, and everything looks fine except for Thursday, May sixth, where you have all eight teams playing on the same field at two-thirty in the morning. Give me a call, will you?

  THE SEASON

  My son had trouble sleeping the night before the first game. So did I. He was nervous. So was I, but I didn’t let him know it. Anxious feelings have a memory of their own and have an insidious way of returning when someone you love is experiencing them as you once did. But part of the job of being a father on these occasions is to create innocuous small talk during the drive to the field and then sit in a strategic corner of the bleachers, from where your child can feel your presence but not your nerves.

  —We’ve got a problem.

  —Can it wait, Normie? My son’s pitching.

  —Sorry, but this is urgent.

  —What’s wrong?

  —They canceled The Rutherfords.

  —What’s The Rutherfords?

  —You know, that stupid sitcom about that moronic mountain family that was part of the Tuesday-night lineup.

  —Oh, yeah.

  —You know the show?

  —No.

  —Well, it stunk.

  —So, why is this a problem?

  —Because Howie Heckler, who created The Rutherfords, has a son named Owen who plays for the Indians, as does the kid whose dad is the network exec who canceled the show.

  —Oh, boy.

  —So, the Hecklers are demanding a trade, which is a big problem for the Indians, because Owen’s their best player.

  —And what about the executive’s kid?

  —He’s almost as bad as The Rutherfords.

  —So why not trade him instead?

  —No can do, amigo.

  —How come?

  —His old man is giving us the money for a new scoreboard.

  —Oh.

  I’d heard about this new scoreboard. It was electronic and had a picture of the network executive on it.

  —You know something? Jamie Oxnard’s not bad. Maybe his manager won’t mind trading him for Owen Heckler. Any conflict with Jamie’s dad?

  —It’s a nonissue, kemosabe. His old man’s in jail for taking part in the S&L scandal. So right now, my guess is he’s more concerned about who’s standing behind him in the prison courtyard than what team his son plays for.

  —Jesus, Normie…

  —I’ll go check into that trade.

  With that crisis out of the way, I turned my attention back to the game. My son’s team took an early lead, and I was starting to relax when a man I did not recognize approached me.

  —You the major-league commissioner?

  —Yes.

  —That your boy who just got that double?

  —Yeah.

  —Seems like a nice kid.

  —Thanks, he is.

  —You must be real proud.

  —I am.

  —I’m real proud of my boy, too.

  —Uh-huh.

  —But he won’t be out here today, and you know why?

  —Why?

  —Because of you, you prick.

  —Excuse me?

  —He’s twelve years old. Loves baseball—eats, sleeps, and breathes the game. But because you and those other geniuses who run this thing didn’t deem him worthy to be drafted onto a major-league team, you can’t imagine how devastated he is.

  —God, I’m sorry, but…

  —You’re sorry? My boy’s at home crying while these younger kids are playing because I don’t kiss the right asses or because my wife’s chest isn’t as big as Connie Seuss’s—and you’re sorry? Fuck you, Commissioner.

  The man’s son was named Henry Dwyer, and at the next board meeting, I was told that Henry was not as good a player as his father thought. And since a kid who’s drafted into the majors stays with that same team for the rest of his Little League career, the managers prefer drafting younger players whom they can develop over the next few years, as opposed to a twelve-year-old who’s in his last eligible season. I felt bad for Henry Dwyer. But as things turned out, his dad was not the only parent with a gripe.

  —Hi, Alan. It’s me, Normie. Look, I’m sure it was only a typo, but a lot of the parents are upset because the flier you sent out said this year’s yearbook is going to cost fifteen hundred dollars. Give me a call, will you?

  Two weeks later was my wife’s birthday, so I took her to our favorite restaurant to celebrate. Upon being seated, I recognized a nearby couple, who asked the waiter if he wouldn’t mind moving them to a table that was farther away from ours. They were Little League parents who were still angry at me for not firing the coach they claimed their nonathletic son was allergic to.

  —Alan?

  —Yes?

  —Normie.

  —Hi, Normie.

  —How you doin’, amigo?

  —Fine, Normie.

  —Good to hear. Real good to hear.

  —Normie?

  —Yes.

  —Is everything okay?

  —Super, just super.

  —Then, Normie?

  —Yeah?

  —Why are you calling me at my parents’ house?

  —Because we have a problem.

  —So things aren’t “super, just super”?

  —No, they’re not.

  —What’s wrong, Normie?

  —Everyone hates you.

  —They do?

  —Yes, they do.

  —Why?

  —Because they feel you’re using your power as commissioner to favor your son’s team.

  —I am not.