All my life, I’ve made little habits for myself, to make sense of my days.
When I was allowed to go outside as a child, I went straight for my mitt and ball. Positioning myself in front of the yellow pebbled wall of the left-hand side of the garage, I readied my legs. Bouncing up and down a bit on the balls of my feet, I made my body a spring. I tilted my right hip back a little, stepped forward long with my left leg, and whipped my right hand over my head, then threw the ball.
And then I bounced back, so I could gauge the distance better. Footwork, dancing, pushing up a little dust. The ball is coming back from that mustard-yellow garage wall. I’m ready.
It’s bouncing into a grounder. Shoot. I love line drives. But there’s no time to think about that. I’m focused. I want this.
I push my feet a little to the right, pivoting on my hip, then swivel back to put myself in the line of the grounder.
Early on, I realized that if I just stood there, waiting for the ball to arrive, I’d be surprised by its force and maybe get hit in the face. So I learned to dance around it, step into it by my choice, and catch that grounder on my terms.
And then throw again.
I learned that footwork trick from watching Davey Lopes dancing in tiny steps at second base. He was a soft-footed demon. Same with Ron Cey at third and Bill Russell at shortstop. They’d do their little dance, all of them at the same pace, moving on the diamond like a single animal with many feet. When they caught the ball, they threw instinctually to Steve Garvey, solid and stolid, ready and waiting, to stretch his legs at the right time to catch that ball and get the guy out.
I’ve played first base all my life. When I was 10, the best moments of my week were Saturday game days. I knew exactly how to shade the base and move around, making little fluffs of southern California dirt with my Keds. I never dropped the ball. I was ready.
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