THE DAY OF THE BIG GAME (the morning after my encounter with Scarecrow) got off to a dramatic start. I was camped in my all-time favorite spot—well off the road and midway between the springs. Half an hour before sunrise, the sound of pounding hooves and braying burros roused me from a deep sleep. Wha…? Coming this way! More asleep than awake, I leapt out of my camper just in time to see three feral burros trotting up the road at a fast clip, a large white husky dog at their heels. I’d seen this uncut alpha male cruising around without adult supervision for the last couple of days; no sign of any ‘owner.’ Big White was joyously herding his catch, pushing them straight toward the crowded encampment up ahead. A fourth burro, hanging fifty yards behind, followed in hopes of eventually reuniting with his cohorts. Only in Saline Valley! I stood there laughing out loud, imagining tents being dragged down and outdoor kitchens leveled in the ensuing mayhem. Up the road they went—donkeys hee-hawwing, dogs barking; sleepy murmurs from the rudely awakened. Big White, doing his level best, whistling a happy tune.
Before the sun was up I was soaking with another big group, most of them the same bunch as yesterday. Today’s pool-gossip had it that Wizard overfilled his tank (again). Which was a shame, partly because it’s obvious to all that Walt’s softballing days are numbered. The old renegade no longer jogs off his hangovers in the morning and, these days, just walking around he looks shaky. So this was going to be ‘his’ game—the Misfits, his team, going for an unprecedented third win in a row.
After a good long soak, my stomach said it was time for a new pursuit. On my way back to camp, I heard this melodious female voice sing out, “I have too many pancakes!”—a veritable siren’s call, coming from a little trailer set back off the road aways among the creosote. I wheeled ninety degrees mid-stride and headed toward breakfast. Seated by a window, Tom had witnessed my complete and utter lack of hesitation. As I approached he called out in his distinctive husky voice (lingering traces of a New York upbringing), “Well, you don’t put up much of an argument!” I’d had his wife Cherie’s fine sourdough griddle cakes a couple of times before; this was no time for dithering. Plus, I’m crazy about her. Tom and Cherie have become two of my favorite Saline Valley friends. Even though we met shortly after I first came out in 1990, for some unknown reason we didn’t start spending time together—quality time—until last winter. Since then our friendship has blossomed and now, lucky me, I get invited for meals. They live way up north in Lassen County, in a little town near Susanville. Every year around this time Cherie and Tom take their two kids (Beth, ten; Ben, eight) out of school for two weeks and head for Saline. Enough time for full immersion, no pun intended. The kids were doing schoolwork when I climbed into the trailer. (Judging by their scrunched-up faces, it must have been math.)
Beyond Upper Spring the road continues north for a couple miles before it enters a broad wash and turns into a four-wheel track that crosses over Steele Pass—the ”back way” to Eureka Valley. Earlier this week, Tom drove a truck-load of friends and family to the pass. Eight of us were wedged in his pickup’s open bed for the bone-jarring but incredibly scenic ride, most of it rock and gravel and deep sand interspersed with short passages of actual road, dodging boulders and crossing countless gullies at a crawl. After a group picnic at the pass Tom and I set off on a short hike, just the two of us. For the first time we had a chance to really talk—to talk about things that matter. Along the way, I had a chance to express my admiration for Tom’s somehow juggling everything he’s got going, keeping the boat afloat. His going-on-fourteen-years marriage, for one; being a homeowner; raising two first-rate kids. Owning and operating a landscape architecture business with a friend-partner, and all that that entails (keeping up with an endless stream of bills and loan payments; business acquisitions; running two crews; dealing with difficult and demanding clients…nonstop hassles, in a word).
One story he shared was very moving.
Every other weekend, Tom takes care of his father, Carl, a widower in his seventies with Alzheimer’s. Tom has one sister. When their dad realized what was coming, he begged his kids not to put him in one of those dismal Senior Care Facilities—to let him stay in his own home. (He had the financial wherewithal.) They promised. So Carl still lives at home, under full-time care. Tom and the sister take turns giving the live-in nurse some much-needed time off. Carl has reached that stage where he still remembers his children—some of the time—but no longer recognizes the grandkids. Knows where he is, gets around the house just fine on his own, but all doors leading to the outside world now have special demented-old-person-proof locks to prevent escapes. Carl is often “mixed up.” He wanders the house searching for his dear departed wife. Gets frustrated, gets angry and belligerent. So there it is: after putting in long hours at his job all week, being both daddy and husband on the side, every other week Tom makes the three-plus hour drive to Placerville (twice!) and spends Saturday and Sunday caring for a father who often doesn’t even recognize him. It’s been a full-on ordeal, from having to geezer-proof the house to continually seeking new help. He told me about one nightmare scenario involving a thieving nurse; how they had to hire a lawyer and install hidden cameras to catch her in the act. The nurse ended up being arrested, tried, and jailed but things she’d stolen—his mom’s jewelry and other sentimental valuables—were gone forever. I said, “Tom, how long can you keep this up? I know he’s your dad and all but he doesn’t even know who you are!” A two word reply: “I promised.”
There it is: Tom has a home and family, manages a growing business, helps raise two kids, and takes care of a failing parent for much of his so-called free time. In short, my friend is one of those unsung working-class heroes—people who have the fortitude, and somehow muster enough energy, to keep their intricate worlds from busting apart at the seams. Near as I can tell, this one goes through life with a smile; with a cheerful acceptance of circumstance. Not many people can pull it all off with Tom’s capability and aplomb. As it happens, I don’t know many people with such complicated lives. I’m thirty-six; most of my friends are (like me) single, nomadic, more or less uncommitted climber/skier/ranger-types. Tom doesn’t come across right off as being all that impressive. He’s a regular-looking joe—semi-swarthy, bushy brown hair, unruly beard; average height and build. But you quickly discover that he’s just an exceptionally nice person. Smart. All-around solid citizen. He’d be a great boss—is one of those people that everybody likes. I enjoy just being around him. And his charming wife and their kids.
As for his partner: Cherie is thirty-five to Tom’s forty-four. Simply put, Cherie is one of the most attractive, most alluring, fascinatingest women I’ve been fortunate enough to spend time with. I make an effort to conceal my near-infatuation when she’s around, which I know must sound silly and juvenile. But that’s the point—this is just the sort of boyish-boorish, gooey sentiment the poor woman is routinely subjected to. Tom told me on our walk the other day that random unattached males approach his better half with earnest declarations and devotions. Men she barely knows or has just met tell her she’s the most gorgeous creature they’ve ever laid eyes on, that they’re in love, et cetera. (Tom, parodying some poor slob: “You should leave your husband and come away with me.”) My Saline pal Bead-maker Keith is similarly afflicted. I was pondering this Cherie Phenomenon the other day, wondering why I feel such a strong pull, and later told Keith, “I’m drawn to all beautiful things, things that are complex, things that are mysterious, and attractive women in general. She fills the bill all ‘round.”
Cherie is tall and willowy—maybe five-foot-ten—with clean, simple features and the most stunning green-green eyes. Slender neck, elegant hands. She carries herself with self-possessed grace. (In her teens she’d modeled for a time but realized modeling professionally wasn’t for her and wisely gave it up before it had a chance to ruin her life.) She’s more girl-next-door-beautiful than Hollywood-beautiful—right down to those dainty freckles on her nose and cheekbones that absolutely slay me. More than once I’ve heard comparisons to Mariel Hemingway.
The essence of Cherie’s beneath-the-skin appeal is a bit harder to pin down but I’ll give it a try. The woman radiates feminine charisma. Sensuous but nurturing…a balanced blend of sexy and maternal. Steady. Even-tempered. There’s also a quiet knowingness about Cherie, something you find in people who listen more than they talk and listen well. She’s not overtly flirtatious—not that I’ve witnessed, anyway—but somehow just reels you in. Us men, that is. I laugh at myself and all the other fools and wonder how Tom handles stray dogs falling in love-lust with his girl. It must be tedious. Me: being a guy, I don’t have the foggiest idea what it would be like to live in Cherie’s skin. (Or any other woman’s skin, for that matter.) She wields herself with flair…and knows her power, oh dear me yes! From what I’ve seen so far, Cherie seems to be an exceptionally kind, giving person. Whatever vanity there is she keeps under wraps. In addition to rearing two fine children, she helps Tom keep that boat afloat and tends the hearth fires at home. Cherie also has a licensed massage business on the side.
I feel much love for this family, both individually and as family-unit and think of them as a prime example of the kind of deep fulfillment domestic life can provide—all the hard effort that goes into making things work; the continuous giving-up-of-self. (Selflessness being one of my lofty ideals but, thus far, little more than aspiration.)
HIGH NOON: GAME TIME! CARS AND TRUCKS and vans had been rolling down the road to Lower Springs all morning long, raising clouds of dust that hung in the air for ages. A few late arrivals, showing up in the nick of time. (These being day-tripping Owens Valley residents.) Five little aeroplanes were now neatly lined up alongside the Chicken Strip. I strolled down around eleven to find at least fifty rigs in the “parking lot.” The parking area and ball field, located on the west side of the road just beyond the outhouse, is a windswept flat littered with spiky little clods of crumbly rock—bits and pieces of the off-white mineral deposited by an eons’ worth of hot spring runoff. (The ball field has considerably less loose material than surrounding areas and zero plants, evidence that it’s been groomed through the years.) The crucial lines had been measured out and chalked in. Someone had gotten the bases and home plate out of storage and attached them to the desert floor. But there were no bleachers, backstop, or outfield fence for home run balls to sail over: just a diverse assortment of folding chairs along with several shade canopies. Beer coolers served as extra seating. Many people. People standing…milling about. Vehicles everywhere—double and triple parked, wherever they fit. Dogs various wandered around looking for ground-scores and trouble.
As per tradition, Misfit fans occupy territory to the right of home plate. Skins fans (a visibly older crowd) take the left side. Steadfast members of the Lower Springs team were marked by actual uniforms, albeit a motley assortment of custom-made T-shirts and jerseys from games past; red on white being the one unifying theme. The Skins also field a loose-knit squad of cheerleaders. Well…perhaps ‘squad’ isn’t the word…more like ‘freelancers.’ And most definitely not based on any sort of standard cheerleader model. Last year’s star was a woman, forty-something, both plump and well endowed, whose costume consisted of black lace panties and this all-strap-no-fabric nonutilitarian bra thingey (also black) under a scarlet see-through negligee—leaving, ahem, everything to the imagination. Meandering through the crowd like a virgin whore, she handed out home-made cookies from a makeshift tray slung below her neck. Zeroing in on seated male fans, she would demurely bend over them from the waist, pink-tipped breasts looming just above her tray, and purr, “Would you like a gingersnap?” (I took two.) Today, she was dressed a bit more conservatively in a standard cheerleader outfit. This year’s standout, also in her forties and equally immodest, was decked out in high heels, red fishnet body stocking, and white nurse’s coat with big Red Cross symbol on the back. Cherry-red lipstick. I should note that these two were typical examples of the sort of ladies we all see naked here on a daily basis—middle class women with mom-bodies, comfortable in their skin. But on this day, in those outfits…well, male heads were seen to swivel. There was some surreptitious sideways gawking from behind sunglasses going on, you betcha. Such is the outsized effect of lingerie on the male libido. It’s a mystery.
It was time to get this game underway but players were still just standing around. By now everybody knew that Tom and Cherie’s daughter, Beth, was to play America the Beautiful on her saxophone (at ten, she’s not quite ready to tackle the national anthem’s tricky high notes) but mom hadn’t shown up yet so we held off a bit longer. Then a dog fight broke out in left field: somebody’s red chow rashly decided to take on Big White. The chow, clear underdog, slunk off tail-between-legs after some guy, maybe the dog’s owner, ran over and dumped water on them. Still no Cherie so the lineups were announced—with the aid of a cardboard-and-duct-tape megaphone that worked as well as any store-bought version. Beth, who hadn’t seemed all that nervous earlier, now looked completely petrified. I’d staked claim to a spot just a few yards from home plate and observed all this from my little folding chair. Beth, standing rigidly on the sidelines holding her alto sax, had that telltale glassy-eyed stare. The long wait had finally gotten to her. Uh-oh…. Just then Scarecrow scuffled over with a can of Coke in one hand and low-slung beach chair in the other, plunked the chair down not five feet to my right and shouted, “Play ball!” He was still wearing yesterday’s yellow T-shirt and spanking new Levis but now sported a preposterous floppy-brimmed sunhat that was a good two feet across. (I’d never seen anything quite like it….even for a scarecrow, it was a pretty zany look.) He cupped his hands around his mouth and again yelled, “Play ball!” The person seated between us picked up and left, leaving the space empty.
Cherie still hadn’t arrived so Tom finally steered his daughter out onto the field. With downcast, glazed-over eyes, she radiated crowd-terror. The crowd, hands over hearts and hats off, stood up in anticipation. Everyone present felt for the child and silently urged her on: You can do it! And Beth rallied. It took her a few bars to get in swing but, after honking a few of the first notes, she played America almost flawlessly (though she did rush the last few bars to hasten her escape). As Beth played, Big White and yet another dog-on-the-loose came and stood six feet in front of her, baying in accompaniment—a priceless moment of pure, unadulterated Americana. Howling with laughter, the crowd went wild as gushing papa led blushing daughter off the field. Beth looked dazed but relieved and happy. We all were. Scarecrow, smoke and drink in hand, hollered “Play ball!” Still more time passed; no one was taking charge. By now others were yelling Play ball! Everybody was keen to get this game going. Conditions were ideal: high sixties; no wind, no clouds—picture perfect midwinter desert-weather. If anything, without any breeze or shade it actually felt a tad on the hot side of just right, especially with the intense sunlight being reflected off ground nearly as white as snow.
Finally, the game got underway. Lower Springs batted first with Wizard pitching for the Misfits. He looked bad. People were whispering about his condition. It’s said that Babe Ruth pitched hung over on a regular basis but he was half Wizard’s age.
For the Misfits, the game got off to a disastrous start. Wizard actually put on a respectable showing; most of his pitches came down fairly close to the plate. (All that horseshoe-tossing muscle memory….) The Skins’ hitting was commendable while the Misfits’ fielding was, well, pathetic. There had been no practice to speak of unless you count a few players tossing balls back and forth in their camps; not so much as a ten-minute warm-up. From the outset, even short throws went way off-mark. A Skins player would smash one, take off running, and you’d see Walt slowly turn and track the ball as it sailed deep into the outfield. This happened over and over. Easy catches were bobbled and dropped. Throws to second—off by a mile. Runners advanced in unison. Skins fans cheered. Players high-fived one another as runners came in. The Wizard looked positively dejected with a grim smile—more like a grimace—plastered on his face. (It all must have been a blur.) When the top of the first finally came to an end it was 12–0. Upper Spring fans looked stunned, the players deflated.
Things did get better. As things often do. In softball games of this caliber, a twelve run lead is by no means insurmountable. Over the next few innings the Misfits played well and slowly began to catch up. Chili Bob pitched his token inning. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised by how well he pitched—almost as good as Wizard. (He may have been a top-notch player in his day.) Bottom of the second: Walt stepped up for his only at-bat and popped up a feeble blooper that almost literally landed in the pitcher’s glove. No kidding—the guy barely moved. And the Wizard was done for the day. Maybe done, period. Chili at least got on base with a limp dribbler down the third base line; a virtual-bunt, it gave him time enough to beat the pitcher’s throw to first. After their token showings, both captains retired to the sidelines and their cold beverages. The crowd cheered each and every hit. More bad throws. Catches—bungled. Grounders would without warning ricochet off tiny rocks, leaving the surprised fielder’s mitt empty. One spectacular side-retiring double play caused half the gathering to go wild while the other half went dead silent. Timeouts were called twice when dogs wandered onto the field hoping to join the action. After hits and between innings, a group of talented string musicians from a big encampment up above would leap up and launch into bluegrassy riffs while the cheerleaders bopped around, brandishing their mangy-looking pompoms. My face was locked in a perma-grin. You know: the kind of grin where, when you finally stop grinning, your face hurts.
Before the game started, Beth and her little friend Katy—a precocious six-year-old—came over and plopped down next to me, on my left, the pair hip-to-hip on Beth’s saxophone case. To my right sat Scarecrow, with the unfilled gap between us. I got up several times to wander around and greet friends. Once, I returned to find that the girls had moved Beth’s saxophone case into the space between my chair and Scarecrow’s and the three of them were conversing. I overheard much of their talk—a bizarre, bantering exchange that consisted largely of Scarecrow being sternly lectured by a pair of grade schoolers regarding his personal habits. And Scarecrow defending himself.
Some back-story will maybe help make sense of what followed. Maybe.
Despite the age difference, Beth and Katy act like the best of pals. They see each other just once a year and, with children being in short order here at the springs, have become fast friends out of necessity. Mild mannered Beth has her mother’s sweet disposition. Katy, on the other hand, is what used to be (maybe still is) known as a terror. I’ve “known” her and her single-mom mother, Carol, since the girl was two. Even as a toddler Katy was willful and assertive; a child who always made her presence known and got what she wanted. She’s adorable-cute in the pixyish blond sense; a high-spirited little girl who runs around shrieking with laughter. She’s also calculating and controlling to a degree that belies her tender age. At times, her manipulativeness has an almost sinister quality. I’ve seen Katy in action quite a few times now—she’ll resort, as needed and in turn, to all the customary American-style techniques and devices children of a certain age deploy—cajolery, whimpering, assorted crying styles with adjustable volume. And, as a last resort, there’s always the full-blown tantrum (which never fails but is a big commitment of time and energy). On frequent occasions I’ve seen this mother-daughter team going through the motions. Doing the negotiation dance. And, time and again, have watched Carol fold. Honestly, I’m not judging Carol’s mothering skills—battling a willful child singlehandedly is a losing proposition. Not to mention that Carol is on vacation, trying to relax and regroup. Things may be different at home. In any event, her daughter is a certified handful.
So. I was trying to enjoy the game but kept being distracted by the twisted repartee taking place right next door. Scarecrow was drunk on arrival. (Slouched in his low-slung beach chair, he looked as if he were slowly melting.) He huffed one cigarette after another and sipped from his can of Coke which, I soon realized, was mostly if not all something 80-proof. The trio were just feet away but between the crowd noise and bursts of cheering I missed quite a bit of what was said. As for what transpired: the “discourse” seemed to largely consist of the girls badgering their quarry. Katy, like other little girls of her age and personality type, has a nasty mean-streak. She was definitely the instigator but Beth, four years her senior, fell in behind, acting as Katy’s willing foil. They took turns mocking poor Scarecrow. I got the impression that they’d both already spent some time around him—there were vague hints of familiarity. And that can of “Coke” certainly hadn’t fooled these two. (His combustible breath no doubt gave him away.) Katy would say, “Why do you drink so much? Why do you always smoke? You stink!” and Scarecrow would defend himself as if he were answering to an adult but in language one uses when speaking to a child. Smiling all the while, the girls made sure Scarecrow knew just what they thought of his bad habits and character flaws. Repeatedly, I heard the words “Drugs are bad!” It was obvious that a lot of their sermonizing stemmed from the anti-drug guidance children receive at school nowadays, starting early on. Kids Katy’s age—first-graders—might not be quite ready for this sort of counsel, I really don’t know, so perhaps all the drugs-are-bad talk was initiated by Beth and Katy just ran with it. (I should note that Katy’s mother smokes and enjoys her alcohol). Also—and this is pure surmise—it could be that part of what they’re getting at school, obliquely, is the notion that drug users are fair game for vilification.
So this is how it went: “Why do you always drink and smoke? You take drugs!” Scarecrow would parry the attack, arguing that beer and tobacco weren’t really drugs. (“I’m not a doper!”) His tormentors just wouldn’t let it go. Beth: “All you do is smoke and drink!” Katy: “We don’t wanna sit by you any more! You smell bad!” Maybe so, but they remained hunched on Beth’s saxophone case right by his side. Back and forth it went. Scarecrow changed tack several times: would claim he didn’t have a drug problem then admit to being addicted. He’d concede that tobacco was unwholesome adding, “Just because I smoke don’t mean you have to. Don’t you ever start to smoke!” Next thing, he’d deny that he was doing anything wrong—taking it all on the chin.
The girls were merciless and finally Scarecrow lost his cool. He got testy when Katy said, “We don’t want to sit by you! You’re disgusting! Why don’t you go away?”
“I’ll move when I want to,” he retorted. Followed at once by [whiny, self-pitying tone] “Why are you being so mean to me?” A minute later all three were back to joking, laughing, saying silly things…all smiles. And despite their nonstop griping, neither made a move. They sat there, right at his shoulder, as if spellbound.
Back in softball-world:
The Skins’ lead narrowed as the game progressed. A couple of innings the team went down fast on easy fly balls. But the Misfits could never quite catch up. There was a succession of base hits with sub-par fielding. (In all fairness: when a grounder hit the outfield crumble there was no telling where it’d go.) But there were also some great catches and spot-on throws to home, umpires making their calls—“Yer out!” or ”Safe!”—and another double play. Real baseball. Lots of cheering. Some booing, always directed at the umpires. (“Throw out the bums!”) The game got close enough to give the Misfits forlorn hope but the Skins always managed to keep a two or three run cushion. When Walt first hit the sidelines, I heard someone ask how he was doing. “Not so good,” came the reply. Then, several innings later, I heard another person ask him the same question and this time the answer was, “The more beer I drink the better I feel!”
Meanwhile, the girls continued taunting Scarecrow. They took turns goading him, using the same lines over and over. Why this sadomasochistic performance kept plugging along in the exact same vein, without variation, was beyond my ken. Intervening would probably require at the least making eye contact with Scarecrow—something I simply couldn’t face. Thus far, I’d feigned not hearing what was going on. There were other people within earshot and none of them seemed to be paying the least attention. Maybe, like me, they were pretending not to hear. At any rate, Scarecrow’s masochism was really starting to get on my psyche’s nerves. Perhaps worse, though, was the way two innocent children had—I don’t know if ‘instinctively’ is the right word—tapped into the man’s warped pathology. And were enjoying themselves no end. What fun! (I’m no child psychologist but it occurs to me just now that what I was witnessing might have been the female version of little boys’ enjoyment of tormenting small animals.)
By the way, Scarecrow had indeed gone on his big supply run. After the game, I heard an account from someone who’d been part of what, to no one’s surprise, turned into a complete debacle. Shortly before departing, Scarecrow backed his beat-up Bronco over one man’s ice chest, rendering it inoperable. Scarecrow promised to get him a new one. He left with a long shopping list and a couple of hundred dollars for beer and wine and ice and tobacco plus additional gas money. (There were bets out on whether or not he’d return.) In the end, some folks got beer but no ice. Someone got ice and cigarettes but no beer. The ones who showed up late to pick up their orders got nothing and, apparently, were told some bold-faced lie about a lost wallet, later found. And the fellow whose ice chest was crushed got his beer and ice but no ice chest to put them in. Have to say it: those who’d given Scarecrow their hard-earned cash all knew there were risks involved…were aware that this dodgy character, Richard, was not one to be trusted. But, having calculated the odds, they all decided it was worth taking a gamble.
IT WAS NOW THE BOTTOM OF THE SEVENTH inning. The low winter sun moved across the sky and shadows lengthened without anyone noticing. The Misfits were still within reach of pulling off an upset. It could happen! Just maybe! Substitutions were made all through the game, on both sides, giving everybody who wanted to a chance to play. A couple of late subs for the Misfits—as it happened, both women—put up poor showings both at bat and in the field. (They weren’t the only female players and were by no means alone in the poor-showings department.) Wizard was standing just a few yards away from me at the time. Shaking his head in unambiguous disapproval as the teams exchanged sides, I heard him say to no one in particular but loud enough that anyone could hear, “We gotta get those girls outa there.” Old school.
Katy and Beth were still hacking away at Scarecrow. He’d started to show some irritation at the hurtful remarks but would revert to joking and teasing in between attacks. At one point, Katy picked up her little day pack to get something out of it and, with no warning, Scarecrow reached over and snatched the pack from her hands. “Whaddya got in there? Got some candy in there?” Katy grabbed it back shouting, “Don’t touch my pack! You stink!” Her face was a picture of outraged indignation. I was on the edge of my seat, ready to tackle Scarecrow if he finally cracked. But no. Looking hangdog, he yielded and sank back in his chair, absorbing this last brutal rejection with a stricken look. Even then, the two girls didn’t move. Neither did Scarecrow. I desperately wished for some motherly intervention; for someone to end this. Did anybody just see that? Anybody besides me hear that? Hello! No one around us seemed remotely aware of what was going on. Weird gets weirder. Speaking of mothers: Cherie had finally shown up about the third inning (she’d been in camp with Ben, keeping watch until he finished his homework) but never came over. And where was Carol? I hadn’t seen her since the game started. I finally got up and walked away from the psycho-drama.
The score remained close. With only a couple of innings to go, you could feel the competitive tension building to a crescendo. (Just like real baseball!) Then it was the bottom of the ninth—Misfits’ last turn at bat; do or…or go back in camp. I headed for my front row seat to catch the last action. And there was Scarecrow, standing at home plate with bottle of beer in one hand and a bat in the other, taking desultory one-armed practice swings. The guy who was actually next up walked over, holding his own bat. He was a large man, serious of demeanor, pumped up from all the pressure. For a moment he just stood there staring at Scarecrow. Then: “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Scarecrow replied cheerfully, “I’m gonna win the game for you guys!” The batter, someone I’d never seen before today, turned away and said, “Get the drunk outa here.” Scarecrow wavered and the big man said, louder and with a more menacing edge, “Get the drunk away!” Whoa. A couple of Misfits hustled Scarecrow over to the sidelines while the batter took his turn at the plate. And that was when I saw what I’d have to say is one of the more piteous things I’ve ever witnessed: the desert Scarecrow, Richard-somebody from Trona, standing alone with both beer and bat hanging limp—rebuffed by one and all, the crushing weight of it in his anguished face and bearing. The mighty Scarecrow had struck out. Wasted, wretched, he dropped his borrowed bat in the dirt. Turned. And walked away. I never saw him again.
The side went down in a hurry, one-two-three, and the 1995 game was one for the books: Skins 27, Misfits 24. It turned out to be a good, close game—a classic. What was looking like a blowout early on actually got pretty exciting there at the end.
LATER THAT EVENING, BACK AT MY TRUCK, after a decidedly full day in Saline Valley. (Saline Valley: a place where ‘full’ days are the norm, even when nothing happens that you’ll be able to recall two days later.) I’d skipped all the post-game festivities and feastings in lieu of a long, peaceful soak up top in the volcano pool. Now, in a pensive mood, I sat in my camper’s open doorway with a near-full moon lighting up the night and thought about all the things I’d witnessed since those galloping burros woke me at dawn. That last look on Scarecrow’s face, in particular, was etched in my mind.
A movement caught my eye: glancing down, there on the doormat, just beneath my feet, was a kangaroo rat—perfect little sleek creature of the desert with long, tuft-tipped tail and oversized jet-black eyes. A kangaroo rat, just going about its business. Which, at that moment, was making a living, harvesting supper crumbs I’d brushed off my cutting board an hour earlier. We were fairly well acquainted by this time and it showed little trepidation in my presence. Something about its cartoonishly large eyes, gleaming in the moonlight…. I searched those portals-to-another-place, looking for clues. Something in me shifted.
Well, to claim that what I saw in those lustrous liquid orbs encapsulated the sum total of human joy and travail would be, as Mark Twain put it, “laying it on a bit thick.” But it was rather like that…a minor epiphany, if you will (by definition, not possible to capture in words). In any event, an unorthodox softball game in the middle of the middle of nowhere had subtly amended my worldview vis-à-vis the hairless ape, tossing into the already vast swirl a number of startling and entirely unforeseen new takes on the human condition. Whatever I’d seen in those fathomless rodent eyes was clearly a figment of my expansive mental state—the emotional residue of a dazzling, unforgettable day. My cup was runneth-ing over and I had me some processing to attend to.
©2022 Tim Forsell 23 Feb 1995, 20 Dec 2022
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