Meeting the Comets
Comets Story 4
My first practice with the Honfleur Comets, the team Axel Schuster coached, was like entering a parallel universe: everything was the same, yet it wasn’t. It was soccer shoes, not baseball spikes, making the familiar click-clack as the players walked across the concrete area in front of the clubhouse. They wore bits and pieces of baseball uniforms — a Yankee hat here, a Red Sox shirt there, and one labelled “Cubs” worn by the smallest player. But their slang was French, not ballpark English.
My arrival attracted everybody’s attention as players crowded around to shake my hand. I felt like…actually I’m not sure what I felt like. An ancient relic? An old fossil? “You’re our new player, right, our American?” one asked. It was unnerving. “Geez,” I whispered to Petie, “they’re young enough to be my grandchildren.” Most were in their late teens and early 20s.
“Bonjour, I’m . . . . “ The names, they came at us like a blizzard: Jean-Phi, MoMo, Antoine, Rafi, Damien, Pacombe, Yusef, Ishmael and more. How will I ever remember them all, I wondered. I said. Their easy, outgoing manner, however, soon put me at ease, and I liked that “our” American.
Axel (pictured at left) appeared and kissed Petie on both cheeks, then spotted my glove. “My golly, how old is that?” he exclaimed. The rest of the team pushed in to gawk at the “antique.” It was my Mickey Mantle glove, the one I had worn in high school. Even though the ink had faded, the names of my favorite Yankee players from the 1950s which I had scrawled on the fingers and pocket of the mitt were still visible. They meant absolutely nothing to the Comets, but they passed the glove around, trying it on carefully, treating it like the antique it was. “Who’s Mee-kee?” one asked. I turned to Axel. “At least you’ve heard of Mickey Mantle, right?” Axel shook his head, which left me feeling like an antique. “Babe Ruth? How about him?” Another shake of the head. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. When the Babe, who’d been fawned upon in dozens of countries, visited France in the 1930s, he was shocked and upset that nobody knew who he was.
“What about baseball gear?” Axel asked. “Don’t you have something to play in?” I was in jeans and running shoes.
I had the gear all right. Petie and I found it in a box in our attic the day after my first meeting with Axel. The mice, however, had found it long before. My spikes had hunks chewed out of them. The mice had ignored the glove only because it was stiff as cement. I had to rub oil into it for several days before I could get it onto my hand.
“Okay, let’s get started,” said Axel, glancing at the sky. Winds had picked up; another storm was rolling in from the English Channel. With the first game of the season fast approaching, Axel was anxious get in as much practice as possible.
I was amazed at how talented some of the players were at fielding ground balls. Not only with their gloves but their feet! Then again, France is soccer country; two-million play it compared to 13,000 for baseball. Still, it was strange to see the second baseman field a ground ball with his right foot and flip it casually to first base for an out.
The players started playing catch and immediately drew me into their workout. In the short time before the heavens opened up, I even threw a little batting practice.
Nothing special but at least I didn’t embarrass myself. All in all, I felt pretty good and returned home in an euphoric mood.
Next day was a different story. I woke up feeling like Beetle Bailey in the cartoon strip after Sarge beats him up. Getting out of bed was excruciating. I could hardly move. “Why did I ever think I could do this?” I moaned. All those road races and marathons I had run over the years, all those hours I had put in at the gym had left me in reasonably good shape, I thought.
Just not baseball shape.
There was only one thing to do: get in shape.
— Don
