Saturday's Storyteller: "Sad Lefty came to baseball hammered."
by Belinda Roddie
Sad Lefty came to baseball hammered. Every game, without fail, he would stumble onto the field with the smell of cheap whiskey on his breath, the alcoholic cloud hovering over him like a swarm of hungry, sweaty gnats, eager to feast on him once he inevitable collapsed under the weight of a fly ball. His uniform stained and awkwardly lopsided on his gaunt, crooked frame. Many expected Lefty to be fat, a Babe Ruth of the twenty-first century, choking down hot dogs with beer serving as a solvent. He did not like eating. He preferred only the nectar of the gods, only the nectar was honey bourbon and the gods were scraggly white-haired gnomes behind a dirty counter, pouring booze with one hand and waving away belligerent patrons with the other. "I'll get to you. Just hold on."
Sad Lefty, of course, did not play left field - he played center, or right when Webster's elbow acted up, and he couldn't hold his arm out long enough to make a catch. Nor was Sad Lefty actually that sad. In fact, he was rather content with his situation. And contrary to popular belief, despite his brutal intoxication, he was not a sloppy outfielder. Moreover, it was as if his body used the toxic contents of his stomach to give him newfound superpowers. When one of the primed sluggers of the opposing team would smack a ball out toward the bleachers, Lefty would be scaling the wall, hugging the mitt to his chest once the grubby white sphere had settled into its leather crib. Then he would toddle over to the dug-out once the inning was over, and he would fall asleep until he was called up to bat. He would hit a grounder every time - sometimes successful, sometimes now. Not even the Scotch could grant him a polished offensive skill set, but defensively, he was a haggard Colossus of his own making.
The manager of the team, Bob Rohan, would ignore questions of Lefty's character throughout the season, and by the time the games started again, Lefty would be back on the roster, with a six million dollar contract over three years. Rohan would refer to Lefty by his real name - Duncan Bradley - during conferences and meetings. When asked how he would curb the man's drinking, the manager would roll back his meaty shoulders and huff in that impressive baritone, "Why change the formula if it produces positive results?" As if Lefty was some sort of horrific lab experiment, with chemicals swirling in his intestines, but my God, could he catch a line drive. It was all very simple in Rohan's head, that attempting to approach his star center fielder about his drinking would simply cause the frayed sweater to unravel. If the garment could be worn and keep the individual toasty, it didn't matter how it looked - it mattered that it was succeeding at its basic task.
So Sad Lefty continued to play for the Ignacio Islanders - a team with an unfortunate name, because San Ignacio was not an island, nor did climate change threaten to make it one - and occasionally would fuck with people further by showing his ambidexterity. Again, his nickname did not reflect any part of his actual character. It had originated from a good friend of his, once the shortstop of the Islanders, after a particularly long and rambunctious night out. The two of them had split a bottle of Kennedy's Feel-Good Kentucky Bourbon outside the grocery store, and when Duncan tried to walk in a straight line, he would veer to the left. "I've forgotten how to turn right!" he cried out plaintively, and thus the pseudonym was engraved into his baseball bats and gloves.
Everyone who supported the Islanders loved Sad Lefty. And as he stood on that worn down grassy field, tipping back the brim of his hat so he could see the cheering crowds, they understood, despite the fact that they were merely a soggy blur in the man's reddened vision, that he loved them, too.
This week's prompt was provided by Laine Flores, courtesy of her brother.
Sad Lefty came to baseball hammered. Every game, without fail, he would stumble onto the field with the smell of cheap whiskey on his breath, the alcoholic cloud hovering over him like a swarm of hungry, sweaty gnats, eager to feast on him once he inevitable collapsed under the weight of a fly ball. His uniform stained and awkwardly lopsided on his gaunt, crooked frame. Many expected Lefty to be fat, a Babe Ruth of the twenty-first century, choking down hot dogs with beer serving as a solvent. He did not like eating. He preferred only the nectar of the gods, only the nectar was honey bourbon and the gods were scraggly white-haired gnomes behind a dirty counter, pouring booze with one hand and waving away belligerent patrons with the other. "I'll get to you. Just hold on."
Sad Lefty, of course, did not play left field - he played center, or right when Webster's elbow acted up, and he couldn't hold his arm out long enough to make a catch. Nor was Sad Lefty actually that sad. In fact, he was rather content with his situation. And contrary to popular belief, despite his brutal intoxication, he was not a sloppy outfielder. Moreover, it was as if his body used the toxic contents of his stomach to give him newfound superpowers. When one of the primed sluggers of the opposing team would smack a ball out toward the bleachers, Lefty would be scaling the wall, hugging the mitt to his chest once the grubby white sphere had settled into its leather crib. Then he would toddle over to the dug-out once the inning was over, and he would fall asleep until he was called up to bat. He would hit a grounder every time - sometimes successful, sometimes now. Not even the Scotch could grant him a polished offensive skill set, but defensively, he was a haggard Colossus of his own making.
The manager of the team, Bob Rohan, would ignore questions of Lefty's character throughout the season, and by the time the games started again, Lefty would be back on the roster, with a six million dollar contract over three years. Rohan would refer to Lefty by his real name - Duncan Bradley - during conferences and meetings. When asked how he would curb the man's drinking, the manager would roll back his meaty shoulders and huff in that impressive baritone, "Why change the formula if it produces positive results?" As if Lefty was some sort of horrific lab experiment, with chemicals swirling in his intestines, but my God, could he catch a line drive. It was all very simple in Rohan's head, that attempting to approach his star center fielder about his drinking would simply cause the frayed sweater to unravel. If the garment could be worn and keep the individual toasty, it didn't matter how it looked - it mattered that it was succeeding at its basic task.
So Sad Lefty continued to play for the Ignacio Islanders - a team with an unfortunate name, because San Ignacio was not an island, nor did climate change threaten to make it one - and occasionally would fuck with people further by showing his ambidexterity. Again, his nickname did not reflect any part of his actual character. It had originated from a good friend of his, once the shortstop of the Islanders, after a particularly long and rambunctious night out. The two of them had split a bottle of Kennedy's Feel-Good Kentucky Bourbon outside the grocery store, and when Duncan tried to walk in a straight line, he would veer to the left. "I've forgotten how to turn right!" he cried out plaintively, and thus the pseudonym was engraved into his baseball bats and gloves.
Everyone who supported the Islanders loved Sad Lefty. And as he stood on that worn down grassy field, tipping back the brim of his hat so he could see the cheering crowds, they understood, despite the fact that they were merely a soggy blur in the man's reddened vision, that he loved them, too.
This week's prompt was provided by Laine Flores, courtesy of her brother.
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