The Pitch

Abstract

The Pitch Elinor Nauen It was my brother's idea. Charlie, a season ticket holder of the St. Paul Saints, said, "El, you edited a book"—Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend :Women Writers on Baseball"—why not throw out the first ball?" I'm not an athlete, that's why not. But after various finagling the Saints said cool, and there I was on the evening of July 18, 1994, at Midway (nee municipal) Stadium. The Saints, by the way, are in the unaffiliated Northern League, which the League secretary told me falls between AA and AAA. Leon Durhan is a saint and Pedro Guerrero is in the League. The mascot of Midway is a pig and—No, first I was nervous for a month. I practiced with my friend Becky. Her advice: "Don't throw it over my head—if the dog gets it she'll slobber on it and you won't want to touch it."My friend Ben threw with me a few times, until I caught a tennis ball barehanded and my finger buckled and I forgot all his pointers. Ben's advice: Well, I can't remember, but I'm sure it was good, he's awfully athletic. I believe he suggested I follow through with one more foot than I thought I had. Charlie's friend Ronnie is a retired umpire. Ronnie's advice: "Release the ball at the highest point of your delivery."My husband Johnny called from New York and advised: "Break a leg." Yeah, probably will. Charlie invited everyone he knows to a tailgate party before the game. He's not nervous, in fact, he's feeling no pain. Please please I only care that I don't humiliate myself. My sister Varda's advice: "Wear a short, tight dress and no one will notice if you bounce the ball." Charlie warmed me up with a beer and a softball. His advice: "Don't Worry —Be Happy." At 7, the keg guzzled out and everyone crowded into the stands. "It's Irish night, you and Miss Shamrock will throw out the first balls." As soon as I cruised out on that beautiful green prairie, the ball an unbearably perfect weight in my hand, all my nerves and hoping for thunderstorms vanished. Please please let me pitch the whole game. In the stands my sister Lindsay heard someone say, "I saw her practicing with her boyfriend." My mother heard someone say, "Girls, huh. Let's count how many times they bounce it." Miss Shamrock (neither pretty nor shapely but she did have that [End Page 275] beauty queen power wave down pat) dribbled the ball and then it was my turn. The catcher was huge. Elinor's advice (via gesticulation): "Gee, I wouldn't crouch that low if I were you. I have no idea where this ball is going to go you better be ready for anything." Alarmed behind his mask, he lumbered up. But ha! 90 miles an hour down a dead-end street. A strike, no way round it. Ronnie said so. The talk of the videotape, as caught distantly by my beer-laden bro, said so. A strike, in the midst of a different strike altogether, this was my 1994 World Series. And I got to keep the ball. [End Page 276] Copyright © 2000 University of Nebraska Press