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Chapter 3: Starters

 





     "Vischetti, get out there behind the plate!" I hear from a long way off as my vision shifts into the eyes of a big black bird flapping toward the greening top of First Watchung Mountain.

"On the mound it's D'stefano," calls Coach Martin as the taller blond of the three girls hisses "Leave him alone Heinzy!"




     It hadn't registered with me at the time, but the vehemence of Heinzy's response to my faux pas was amplified by the presence of those three girls at our first game. They were there to watch us play, and not one of us was going to do or put up with anything that might tarnish our images in their eyes.

     It's called dissociation when one retreats from a current painful reality into an altered consciousness. Those undergoing near-death experiences often report dissociative out-of-body visions afterwards. I'm not sure if my fourteen-year-old brain hanging over an iron bar called on this defense mechanism, but it was a relief to be back in my own body as Heinzy walked to pitcher's mound and I tumbled down to the sidewalk.






     "It's Cozza on first and Jannone on second," continues Coach Martin in couplets as they scramble out to their positions. 

"Third base is Gambino and it's Beatty on short," he calls as I stumble across Evergreen Avenue and the shorter blond girl squeals "Hey Ray!"

"Beatty?" he calls again over my retching into a hedge.

"OK then, get out there Malave," I make out over a groan from down on my hands and knees.

"Barna in left, Gubitoso in center, and Joe Flis in right - let's start this season with a win," he exclaims in a flourish as the guys race out to their positions and the buxom brunette cheers "Go Goobi!"






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