Thomas Awful’s Daily Defeats: I Am Not Thomas Awful
Hello good people. If you haven’t noticed, I am not Alex. The mantle of daily defeat has, however, passed on to me this week due to Alex’s obligations, which were unspecified. I’m assuming polka party. So take my arm, observe my rooster hat; today, I’m your Alex.
A long time ago in a South far away from the South we know now, in a South of summertime and lawn clipping smells and red-cheeked tweeners whose favorite pastime was talking about movies their parents weren’t supposed to have let them see. In these, the busted halcyon days, I was the boy who rode the bench. I wasn’t particularly athletic, which meant that I was banished to right field when I did play, but beyond that, an unfortunate ball-to-groin incident at a batting cage had created this Freudian hump I could not surmount. Every swing, every time, I would throw my left foot far outside of the batter’s box, pulling my body away from the ball, to safety. I heard other children’s parents mock me for this. I actually heard my father yell at other children’s parents for them yelling at me for me — admittedly — making their children’s team look quite bad. These were my years in little league.
My dad gave me a hard time sometimes about the way that I batted, too. I resented him for that, thought he didn’t understand. Somehow I mutated that into a sort of Cat Stevens thing, about how he wasn’t there and that’s what happened to me and my career as a man who baseballed. This wasn’t true. I don’t think he ever missed a game, or even a practice.
And it wasn’t all tragedy. My last year, we got third in our region on the back of one kid who hit homers with a Charlie Hustle-level batting average. His aluminum Louisville Slugger with an oversized head made that sound bats are meant to make, the sound of dwarves hammering ores into shapes. Even my individual situation wasn’t bad. I decided that I wanted to play catcher, and found the pads for it somewhere. Behind those pads, suddenly, I was once again invincible. Baseballs had no say in where I could go or what I could do or how ashamed of myself I should be. Referees had repeatedly to insist that I back away because me and my glove and my whole business were constantly crowded over the plate, hungry for the pitches to GET HERE ALREADY. I was, in those pads, removed from myself utterly.
I got to catch about a third of the time. The rest of the time I returned to my duties in right field, or in making sure that every batting helmet in the dugout got kicked. One day, which I remember as one of the hottest days I have experienced, I did not feel good. But, like every momma’s boy our land has known, I had said I didn’t feel good previously, particularly when baseball was involved, such that it was assumed I was making excuses. To the game I went.
Second, maybe third inning, I was standing in right field and it was hot and my stomach was not working the way it was meant to. The inning dragged on and on with no hits in my direction, and, as if in protest, my stomach decided it had finally had enough: I crapped my baseball pants. Now, it’s known that the pants can form a sort of seal around your knees, and so they did. The leak was somewhat contained. I looked, but no one had noticed. I stood there for the remainder of the inning. I waved flies away from me and prayed for no hits. I walked back to the dugout and waved my dad down from the bleachers. He looked at me and knew that wherever I was at, I needed to not be there. By the time we had gotten to his truck, he’d figured out what had happened. He took a pressed white oxford shirt out of the back, laid it down over his passenger seat, and put me on top of the shirt. We drove home.
I tell you this story to gain power over it, or to give my fear a name, or because Alex was busy this week. I hope you’ve found it enjoyable. Don’t lose control of your bowels in a public place this week!
-David (@leaf_house)
