Today marks day 1 for my writer-in-residence at Necessary Fiction. Throughout the month of October I’ll explore the OTHER things fiction writers do to make us whole. You’ll hear from me about gardening and cooking and baking and music, but you’ll also hear from many other writers on a host of topics.
It seemed appropriate, since I live in Pittsburgh, to begin with BASEBALL.
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To set the scene: Tuesday, October 1, 2013
The Pittsburgh Pirates have won the wildcard for the National League, and they’re in a one-game playoff against the second National League wildcard winner, the Cincinnati Reds. Since Pittsburgh had the better record, it’s a home game.
Enter: Kathleen George
BASEBALL AND STORY
By Kathleen George
On my first day of school, I cried uncontrollably. I didn’t want to be there and I didn’t want to leave my mother. The teacher sat in front of us with a book and began to read. That’s my first memory of knowing I needed stories to sustain me. So I became an avid reader and eventually a writer. But it seems I’m severely limited. I can only get interested in endeavors that have a strong narrative. Yes, well, I did sew dresses for a time. And I cook because I love taste sensations and we all need fuel. But I’m very aware that some writers paint, some sculpt, some play tennis. And when I look at the world of possibilities I wish I were one of those people with talents of the hand, eye, leg muscles. No, I just want stories. To battle some innate anxiety or sadness in me.
Perhaps one day I ran out of books as a child and that’s when I discovered baseball.
My father loved baseball. That gave the game credibility to me. At the dinner table he sang, “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” which tickled me almost as much as “I Saw A Big Fat Lady, A’Standing On The Streetcar Track.” The seventh inning stretch ditty was good because it had joy in it and because it also acknowledged battle and possible loss. So I got interested.
I played baseball in our backyard with my brother and sister and Bobby Overman, a neighbor. Though I am not athletic, I managed to break Elmer Laslo’s kitchen window, which seemed an amazing feat. I had to apologize. And pay for it. So there was some drama. And a story to tell.
And then I discovered that baseball was on the radio. Hm. I began to see addictive possibilities. Story possibilities. Somebody would win and somebody would lose, of course, that’s basic, but better than simple wins and losses were the errors, attempts, misfires, trajectories, and reversals—the materials of fiction. Better than that were the psychological aspects of winning and losing streaks. And best of all was the regularity of this pleasure. Games happen almost every day in season.
For a word lover, baseball is the best sport. Baseball announcers (listen to Steve Blass) are crazy for words—no doubt because they have to keep filling the airspace. “He camps out under it.” “He shows bunt.” I love these expressions. They are great shorthands for “That batter hit it hard but way too high so the fielder has forever to wait for it to come down.” And “He reveals that he intends to sacrifice, but he may change his mind or it could be a trick! Let’s watch.”
So to back up, I was a kid and I had access to a radio. And therefore lots of narratives in baseball season. I fell in love with Ted Williams because he was a great player and I stayed in love with him when the crowds turned against him and he spit at them. I must have understood his anger. Betrayal. The fickle crowd. The same story element that makes me watch High Noon every time it’s on and that made me direct The Playboy of the Western World.
There is always something deeply human going on in baseball. This year, 2013, has provided me with daily narratives and an overarching season narrative. I’ve hardly missed a game—watching at the ball park or on TV, listening on the radio, and when out at a gathering or (ahem) teaching a class, there is always the iPhone or iPad to check scores and live updates. The Pirates have given me joy, worry, despair, and thrills aplenty from April on and we are playoff bound so I’m hoping for more.
When I go to the stadium or watch on TV, I can see a terrific sampling of us. Us. Children who are learning the game, young men with painted bodies and beers in hand, quiet bespectacled readers (a man in front of me at a May game had the new Nathaniel Philbrick, as new as the new season), old timers who know statistics and the names of past players I couldn’t possibly retain, ancient women wearing team ball caps. My child self is there. My father is there, singing. And my adult self is working, thinking, “Hey, let’s write this one. Let’s see what difficulties must be survived and who survives and how they do it. and whether they do it with soul or not.
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