In the course of a ball game, a small group of men will test their skills and come face to face, with their inner demons. Within the ebb and flow of this game, somewhere between victory and defeat, they will reveal deep truths about themselves, and explore the essence of competition.
Book Description
Editorial Reviews
About the Author
Don Frankel is a graduate of Queens College and has published numerous short stories over the years. He is also like the characters in this novel, hooked on fastpitch, playing the game for more years, than he would like to admit to.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
FASTPITCH There was just a slight sense of it in the early morning air. You really couldn't even feel it, just a hint of what would come. For the bright, August sunshine, shone down majestically on everything. The huge skyscrapers that surrounded the park, basked in the glow, gleaming alabaster, bouncing the sun back to the green trees and grass, making the world incredibly bright, forcing the shade to hide in thin, little, slivers at their base, or under trees. But as he drove the car through the park, felt the warm summer air pass through the car gently caressing his skin, he could not help but see it in the leaves, as they hung limply on the trees. In a few weeks, in just a few short weeks. Of course it started in the cold. It always did in New York. Started in the cold damp of late/winter spring. The practices conducted as players alternately blew on their hands and pounded their mitts between pitches, trying to stay warm. Their warm breathe in the cold air, unbelievably, visible before them. The sky would be an angry gray, the clouds low, close at hand. The ball would make a sickening, thick, dull sound when hit. The ball would rise up against the back drop of naked trees. Their summer leaves just small green buds, curled up against the cold, almost a afraid to come out, or perhaps he thought, just a bit wiser in the ways of the earth. But then, the few short weeks of practice would pass. The buds would open. Small, new leaves would appear on the trees, just in time for opening day. Opening day, it always had a special feel. Something about it, he couldn't quite explain. It just seemed as if the sun always shone, even when it didn't, and it always seemed as if you won, even when you lost. All he needed was one hit, or a nice play, and he felt as if he'd gone three for three, as a whole rush of memories of seasons past, would come flooding through his senses. Rushing so fast, that he couldn't even recall them, just feel their presence. Like the sound of an old friend's name, or the feel of the sun, or the touch of his fingers, brushing lightly through the grass. From there, the season would build on it own, as the leaves on the trees grew out in full. The drama of the season would unfold slowly, like some long, unending play. Each game a scene, each group of four or five, an act. The end of certain acts, revealing what lay underneath. Like the 14 inning game they had finally won, three weeks ago, that let them know that perhaps they could endure past the heat of the summer and on into Indian summer, where the playoffs and even the Championship round, could keep them going, keep them alive. But either way, with the turning of the leaves, with the dying of the heat, win or lose, it would all end, in the cool of an autumn. Right now, the limp leaves slowly giving up their life, were the first sign. He had no trouble parking the car on 63rd street. They were still two weeks from Labor Day and most of the residents of that neighborhood were out of town, retreating from the heat of the City, to the coolness of the mountains or the shore. He crossed over to the park and as he reached the entrance at 63rd street, the towering buildings disappeared, blocked out by the surrounding mass of green trees. They were so thick and green that for a few moments he could imagine himself anywhere but in Manhattan. He could imagine he was in Belville Maryland where they had gone to play more than one regional tournament. Or he was back in Queens among the many green fields of Cunnignham or Ally Pond parks. Or they were up in Harlem on Lenox Ave and 145th, or the Parade Grounds of Brooklyn or the sandy fields of Jones Beach. Any of the select but well spread out places, where their very special but rare game was played. The game, he had chased over all five boroughs and quite a few states, over the last twenty seven years. For Windmill or Fastpitch, was not just played anywhere, nor could it be played by just anyone. What had Phil said when they had watched an ex-minor leaguer quit their team in frustration just a few weeks back. "He's good, lot of power, good strength.. but a fastpitch player, needs special skills." He had made his way through the trees and the five different diamonds of the Heckshire fields lay before him, all unoccupied. It was probably a few minutes before eight. Their game did not start till 9:15. He figured as usual, he was the first one there. Funny thing, the older he got, the earlier he'd show up. Most of the team was made up of young men in their twenties or early thirties. They would show up twenty minutes before game time, take a few swings make a few throws and be ready to go. Warm ups, were almost treated with disdain. They were young, with God knows how many more games still to play. Only he, Phil and Manny their pitcher, were on the other side of forty, with an equal uncountable number of games behind them. So he knew part of showing up first, was to make the most out of what games he had left. But he also liked the cleanliness of the early morning. He liked the sight of the empty fields, with no one yet on them. Their light, brown clay, and deep, green grass as yet trod upon, untouched. It was all an empty slate waiting to be written on, 2 to 1, 5 to 3, 1 to 0.
Product Details
Would you like to update product info or give feedback on images?
|
Customer Reviews
|
There are no customer reviews yet.
|
|||
|
Video reviews
|
Tag this product(What's this?)Think of a tag as a keyword or label you consider is strongly related to this product.
Tags will help all customers organize and find favorite items. |
Sell a Digital Version of This Book in the Kindle Store
If you are a publisher or author and hold the digital rights to a book, you can sell a digital version of it in our Kindle Store.
Learn more
