We went to a baseball game this past June and saw our home team, the Colorado Rockies, play at Coors Field in Denver. My first time in 20 years of living here.
My observations were. . .
The stadium is monstrous, as though a simple bleacher shouted “Supersize me!” as it was being constructed, and bad magic then occurred.
Beer was everywhere, including the bottom of my skirt, as soon as I sat down on my plastic seat. If someone's not sloshing some on you, you're stepping in it or you're smelling it. (God, I hate beer, especially on a new skirt or sticky on the bottom of a nice pair of shoes).
We were too far away from the “action,” if any could be described as happening, and we realized, quickly, that we just don't know any of the local players.
And, in case it's unclear; this is a recipe for a bad evening. Within minutes, I wished I had stashed a novel next to the pepper spray in my handbag.
I entertained myself instead by watching the sun set over the gorgeous Rocky Mountains, or at least until a woman with large breasts and a tiny tank top stepped in and distracted my attention.
She was a Superfan, seated in front of me, and she kept shouting out particular players' names as her breasts begged to break free of both the confines of her clothing and the curse of our shitty seats. She was just dying to get closer to the owners of those tight poly pants. She and me, both, if only we could have been close enough to see them.
But, regardless, now I was interested. Now I had me some real entertainment. I got to watch Patty or Tracy or Stacie or whatever her name was shake her beer and her breasts in an attempt to summon the players. Wow, who was the player now? (Why did she even think they could possibly see her??) Everything was just plain old boring, until the woman arrived.
Who knew that just three months later my baseball experience would be mirrored by this book, The Thrill of the Grass?
There were several comparisons to be drawn. As I started this short story collection, with The Last Pennant Before Armageddon, I yawned right into my hand. Just as I had, earlier that summer, at the actual ball game. Baseball statistics are beyond boring to me, and boy is it a bad decision to start your short story collection with a bunch of them. I could fall asleep reading baseball stats (and I did, several times).
But, just as a colorful woman saved me from boredom in real life, as soon as a fictional woman entered the picture, in story #2, The Baseball Spur, W.P. Kinsella also had my attention:
My own wife, Sunny, is squashed into the corner of the back seat behind me. She hasn't said a word since we left the ballpark in Cedar Rapids. I catch a glimpse of the red glow of her cigarette. She is tiny as a child sitting back there. I wonder how someone so small and insignificant-looking can tear me apart the way she does.
Ah. Now we were getting somewhere.
The Baseball Spur is a story that compares the average trajectory of a man's life with an average baseball player's career. They're never exactly what you'd want them to be, they're usually too short, and they're full of dead ends and unfulfilled dreams.
The wife, Sunny, is positively fascinating. She's the only one in the story who has an exit strategy, who keeps in motion to escape being trapped. But, does she have any more freedom than any one else? Who the hell knows?
There's a surprisingly sexy story in this collection, too, the seventh one, Driving Toward the Moon. What it did is drive me to a cold shower. Ironically, it's about a fan and a player who spark an undeniable attraction.
The man: We are like magnet and metal, longing.
The woman: “I'm married too,” she whispers, kissing me again in a way that tells me it doesn't matter at all.
That one's worthy of a re-read for sure.
Women saved almost all of these stories for me. Without them, Kinsella just wants to keep on playing with his damn balls.
In all but one. . . the unbelievably short title story, The Thrill of the Grass. In just 10 pages, Kinsella shows his readers how precise and impactful prose can be, if you keep it simple and make each word count.
It was brilliant, sir. Tugged hard at the heart, begged the world without being preachy. . . let us not always sell out, give in to greed, choose the artificial over the natural:
Baseball is meant to be played on summer evenings and Sunday afternoons, on grass just cut by a horse-drawn mower.
Yes. So is life.