Upstaged

Usually, Clare is the center of attention when we go to the batting cages.  All sorts of people—young and old, male and female, mixed and matched—stop by whatever cage she’s in to watch.  And that happened again Tuesday night, at least I think it did.  I admit to sneaking peaks at someone else, so I can’t say for sure how many people were watching my daughter.  When I wasn’t, it was to look at the guy in the 80-mph cage.  He hit everything, just like any good hitter.  But how many hitters are 70, if they’re a day?

I’m serious, he was 70 or more, and without glasses.  The ball came in, he hit it.  Ten balls a token, he hit them all.  Then he’d stand outside the cage for a few minutes, head down, eyes closed, hands gripping—and gripping hard—the top horizontal bar of a metal fence, one leg resting on the bar below.  The first time, I thought he’d hurt himself, but, No, this went on after each session in the cage, of which there were five at least.  Hit, rest or meditate, hit again.

I can only wonder what it meant, why he was doing it and for who.  Here was a life being measured, tested, ten balls a token.  When he finished, he walked out to his car, a Mercury, and drove away into the night.