Itchy Pants

     My Dad is old for how young I am. I am in my Dad's second batch of kids. He got married had two kids raised them divorced his wife and then did it all over again. This, I think, has on the whole been a very beneficial thing for myself and my sister. Or to put it another way, I think us second batchers had better instructors than the first batchers. This makes sense, you do it once the second time around you know what you're doing. This is not the way I mean we had better instructors, I mean somehow more and bigger mistakes were made that allowed me to see more truth to the world, where previously it was better concealed.
     For about the past five years my Dad has gotten a story confused. Everyone knows the story because everyone was kid and everyone still dreams. Baseball as a kid was more of a chore than something resembling anything I would choose to do. The pants for one are unflattering and very uncomfortable as well.
     So the story goes. This is the last game of the regular season and the team hangs on the brink of going out for one last ice cream or continuing the itchy pants saga to another game, a tournament game, a more important game. Small little plastic men painted to look like gold and little metal plaques that no one ever bothers to get engraved were on the line. The game, as you know, was fierce going back and fourth; drama at every out. I played my part, holding my own and not doing anything so terrible that people were to remember the next day, just your average strike out and getting to the ball late. The battle raged and before not too long we all found ourselves taking the field for what could be the last time. It was the top of the last inning and the game was tied. We all played with tensed muscles and hearts so full with the taste of victory a loss would be the cruelest imaginable. Then it happened, a hit, then another and before we could reach our big league chew we were down by three runs. A pop fly to left, caught! To the benches knowing this was our last chance. Home video cameras were rolling and the coach delivered a speech only a slightly pathetic, middle aged, balding, mustache touting old man could have delivered. Touching on faint notions of stretching and Jesus to ice cream and returning equipment with hints of a banana split if we pulled it off. So, as you know, it comes down to me to bat. The whole time I'm waiting I just keep hoping there aren't two outs when I get up to bat or that we've no need for more runs when it gets to me, or that we haven't scored any runs so it won't look so bad when I strike out. So it happens: we're down by two, bottom of the last inning and it's my up at bat. There is one guy on base. Swing and a miss. One strike. This next pitch I decide I aint swinging. He can't throw two strikes in a ro- strike two! Fuck! I take a time out, pretend I have a clue and step up to bat. Damn my Dad's video camera just ran out of battery. The pitcher twitches. It's on me to keep the team together for another game. I remember all the ice cream and that on root beer float I spilled. He winds up, it's all on me. The pitch comes fast down the middle. I swing. Bam! Goes soaring way up way back, it keeps going and going. Home run! We win the game because of me and I have glory forever.
     This is about the sentiment my dad started to convey about five years ago. He would tell this story to any girls I brought over. He would remind me of it when we were together and baseball somehow came into our world. Each time he tells the story I puff out my chest out and nod my head over and over, acknowledging my great feat but not wanting to press the issue. Trying to stay modest. The truth is the story never happened. Well at least to me. My guess is that maybe this happened to my half-brother and my Dad is just confused. I remember hearing the story for the first time and being confused but he looked so proud I couldn't tell him that he was simply losing him memory. It's been long enough of him telling the story and me not denying it that he must be convinced it happened.
      The funny thing is that I was in that situation. Basically everything was the same except it was the last year before high school and once I was in high school I would have to try-out for the team which I knew I wouldn't do. So when I went up to bat in that final inning I knew it may be the last time I ever played baseball. Like real baseball, itchy pants and everything. I remember my Mom taking me to that game and I am pretty sure my Dad wasn't there otherwise I think he would remember the what happened.
     It was the last inning, two outs, two strikes down by two, runner on first and two strikes. The pitch comes I swing, crack! I nail that goddamn ball. It soars way back, I'm sure it was a home run and I am almost home when I see the other team celebrating out of the corner of my eye. I'm note sure how long I was running but I am sure that I was the last person to know that game was over. It is with this in mind that I modestly nod at my accolades.