School Story:
Play Ball
By David Roth
© 17th February, 2005
I suppose it could have ended far, far worse than it did, but no amount of planning on our part could have made it end up better.
It was one of our psychology projects, you see, although technically, I’m not certain you can really call something that originated in a drama class a psychology project. In the early nineteen-seventies, other than Freud, I’m not certain anything qualified for that. Technically.
Of course, ignorance on our part never actually got in our way.
There had been several other projects and most of them worked splendidly! The reversed walking thing was wonderful, and the mysterious impediment in the main hallway was a stunning success. Up until this point, the yardstick outside of the Activities Director’s office had everyone in stitches. Except for the victims of the ruse, of course, but they don’t really matter. It was the gig that mattered, and it was delightful.
Simply put, one of us stood in the hallway outside of her office with a yardstick hidden behind us. A cute girl would walk by engaged in animated conversation, as cute girls to this day are still prone to do, and whoever had the yard stick would reach out and smack her in the bum with it. When the startled young lady in question turned around to register her shock and seek out the offender, the Holder of the Sacred Stick would look as innocent as possible while returning the stick to its hiding place, and point to some poor, unsuspecting slob mindlessly bopping along in the flow of things. The girl would, of course, leave her palm print on his smooth, innocent cheek. As I said, measured out in carefully rationed amounts, the ruse was flawless.
Nothing ever topped the ball game, however. And, much to our unending delight, it ended far better than any amount of clever planning could have considered, and believe me – we were clever.
The high school fine arts wing was in the southeast corner of the building. The yearbook and newspaper class and office were there, as were the band room, music theory room, drama class, and debate room. The hall ended in a floor to ceiling wire reinforced safety window with a door to the outside in either side, that exited to, or entered from, depending on the time of day, the teacher’s parking lot. With your back to the window and doors, there was at your right hand, an alcove that housed the entrance to a staircase to the second floor, where, among other things, the choir room waited. Right there in front of that huge window is where we put home plate.
Yes, literally. Home plate. Something from the theatrical properties room, I think. We also had the other three bases and a rubber strip for the pitcher’s mound. Everyone had had the requisite ball cap and glove. No cleats in the hallway – kind of hard on the tile, you see, but now and then we even went to the trouble of pilfering shirts and those funky legging thingies from the baseball team.
The other things we didn’t have were balls and bats. However, we made up for it with enthusiasm and imagination. Two teams, managers, of sorts, umpires, and after a while, quite a cheering section.
Those of us who could would meet in the fine arts wing during lunch and play ball. We began each game with a tape recorded playing of the National Anthem – the very same scratchy, poor quality recording that started each and every school day. We even had a second recorder with a tape loop of that dumb da da da dun tah-da! thing done at the big ballparks. On a good day the crowd in the hallway would sway back and forth to a rousing, if off key rendition of Take Me Out To The Ballgame.
We played as many innings as time would allow, the progress of the game being determined completely by the imagination of the behind the plate and first base umpires. They would call balls, strikes, and hits. They would make judgment calls for runners and tag outs just like in a real game. We had a score keeper responsible for ERA and batting average, and to determine whether it really was a hit, or something else. Bribes given to that particular official were commonplace, if you wanted to keep your batting average up. In short with the exception of bats, balls, and someone hawking peanuts and beer, it was a real game.
And it was a ton of fun.
That is, until HE showed up.
HE was Mr. Martin, our Dean of Students. He was a tiny, wiry, well groomed man with the dubious distinction of thinking that the small mustache popularized by the maniacal house painter from Austria 45 years prior was still fashionable. He also imagined himself to be in step with the student body, and really did try to fit in with us. This was one of those times.
He had caught wind of ‘The Game’ somehow, and came long one day in about the middle of the second inning, wearing a ball cap, carrying a glove, and sporting a New Your Mets shirt. Thinking himself some sort of really short Catfish Hunter, he wanted to join in on the fun and pitch a few innings. He had the time of his life. For us, however, somehow, our incorrigible rebelliousness just wasn’t as much fun when a teacher joined in and kind of gave it his unofficial sanction.
This went on for several weeks. About once a week, usually during the middle of the second inning, there he would be – cheesy METS shirt, hat and glove, ready to pitch an inning or two.
A plan began to form.
Remember the stairwell next to home plate? Our plan was simplicity itself. Psyche the old man! We stationed someone in the stairwell with a large cardboard box, a glass gallon milk jug, and a brick. At the right time, a signal would come in from the third base coach. It would look like every other third base coach signal. The catcher would then send a signal to the kid in the stairwell to stand by. Timing was critical, so we worked on this for hours perfecting the signal and the follow-up.
On the fateful day, Dean Martin (go ahead, laugh it up fuzzball) appeared right on schedule. During the windup to the second pitch to the first batter of the new inning, the first signal was made. Get Ready. The windup. The spin. The release.
None of us could have ever in our wildest dreams set up what happened next.
When our principal, Nicholas Barota - Dean Martin’s boss, turned the corner down the Arts Wing, all he saw and heard was his beloved Dean of Students in pseudo baseball gear, wind up, appear to throw something, and all the glass in the whole world sounded like it had shattered down in the direction that Mr. Martin seemed to be throwing something.
We never played the ball game again, but for the collective looks of shock on the Principal and Dean of Students faces, it was worth the detentions that followed.
And given the chance, knowing it would have ended this way, would we do it again? All I have to say is PLAY BALL!
