GOING BATTY
A few years ago, I was jolted awake in the middle of the night by the sound of something rushing back and forth in our bedroom. There were thumps, bumps and snarls along with a few hisses. Throwing off the covers, I scrambled out of bed and flicked on the light.
It was our cat, springing up and down and dashing this way and that as it tried to catch a bat.
Living in Normandy at the time, we’d left the windows of our country house open and one of them had flown in. I shuddered, then grabbed a broom and tried to shoo the bat out. It took a few minutes but I finally succeeded. Closing the window, I glanced at our cat. She was not happy. It was clear I had spoiled her fun.
That, as I say, was a few years ago. These days, now living in Paris where I play in the French baseball league. . .
. . .the only bats I think about are those for hitting a baseball.
At least, that’s how it was until recently when my wife Petie showed me a book called Bats at the Ballgame.
Written and illustrated by Brian Lies, Bats was published by Houghton Mifflin in 2010. It’s one of several bat-themed books Lies has done.
But this one, said another reviewer, is one that “truly soars in the dark. You think humans are the only ones who enjoy America’s national pastime? Grab your bat — the other kind — and your mitt, and join these captivating bats as they flutter off to watch their all-stars compete.”
Lies’ prose is delightful. . .
Hurry up! Come one — come all! We’re off to watch the bats play ball!
but the illustrations are what make his book special. They are are out of this world.
Readers are treated to sweeping compositions that transport fans to the right-side-up and upside-down world of bats.
I was delighted to learn that bats enjoy snacking during games just like humans do, although the fare is a little different. Instead of hotdogs, flying vendors cry out, “Mothdogs! Get your mothdogs here!”
There are also Cricket Jacks and infield flies.
Well, you get the picture.
And thankfully there are lots of them. As the book jacket says, the author treats us to a whole new ballgame.
“Grandbats,” he writes, “talk of better times, of fields and heroes past.
Their thoughts slide homeward through the years, across eternal grass.
“Then — CRACK! — THE ECHO ROCKETS ‘round and yanks us to today. The bat at bat has smashed the ball, its cover torn away.
As night falls and the game enters its final innings, the writing becomes almost lyrical.
“Our flyer swoops from base to base,and if he scores, we’re tied! And now the play is at the plate, and now the bats collide.
“So was the the flyer safe? Or did the catcher have the ball? When the dust has settled down, the umpire makes the call:
“OUT!
“The crowd erupts and hollers, ‘NO you’ve lost your mind! Can’t you see that bat was safe? Fire the ump! He’s blind!
I’ll leave it there. If you want to know how the game ends, read the book. After all, isn’t that what most of us used to say when we were kids doing a book report in class and couldn’t think of anything more prosaic to say?
In conclusion, let me just say that Bats at the Ballgame is one of the most delightful books I’ve ever read. But although the bats are portrayed as warm, fuzzy creatures. . .
I learned my lesson long ago and keep my window closed at night.
