My question seemed to amuse him, given the way he laughed politely into his hand and rocked on the toes of his cleats. I looked down when he did that; the man had an alarmingly large shoe size.
“I’m a center fielder, yes.” He said it like I should know the fact yet was somehow bemused that I didn’t. “You really don’t watch a lot of baseball, do you?”
I pressed my lips together and shrugged. “I hope that’s not insulting.” While not a sports fanatic, I knew how particular they could be, especially those who favored America’s favorite pastime. “I was more of an art-class kid.”
He nodded and hit me with another smile. He handed those things out like candy on Halloween. I’d get a cavity if he didn’t stop. “I can see that,” Rome said. He uncrossed his arms and stuck his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Keep your eye on me out there. I’ll catch one for you, all right? I’ll make it all showy for you to use in your portfolio.”
“Do you normallynotcatch balls out there?” I asked and internally prayed that the light tease would come through.
He wobbled his head as if he had to process it. “All right, all right, I guess I set that one up.”
“Yo!” an authoritative voice shouted from the dugout. “Ro-mo! Let’s go-go!”
Rome looked over his shoulder. The Riders were walking off the field so the visitors could practice. “That’s my cue.” He started walking backward again like it was his signature move. “The folks in communications love a good action shot so I’ll try and deliver one for you. You get a good one,” he said as his backward pace turned into an awkward jog, “and they’ll keep you.”
“All roads really do lead to Rome, then,” I hollered after him.I heard a burst of laughter as he disappeared down into the dugout, then the tunnel leading to their clubhouse.
I made my way to the concrete camera well while trying to process what had just happened. Was Rome a popular player that I should have known about even as an avid sportsun-enthusiast? And why was he so friendly withme, the rando photographer who didn’t know a lick about the game?
?
A local opera singer finished belting out the final lyrics to the national anthem, followed by someone shouting to play ball. A cheer ripped through the crowd as the starting lineup from each team jogged off the field back into their respective dugouts. I picked up my camera and adjusted the straps. The heat had somewhat abated as we approached seven o’clock. Thanks to the high-powered fan hitting my back, I had cooled down while sitting in the concrete camera well beside first base.
“Okay, here we go,” the man beside me said. Bill was a camera operator with fifteen years under his belt working for the New England Riders. He shook my hand when I climbed into the well with three others, introduced himself, and told me to let him know if I needed anything.
I scanned the three-fourths full stadium. I had remarked earlier that it wasn’t full, and Bill informed me that the Allentown Thunder weren’t rivals and there were only two games in the series (whatever that meant). Until the first pitch, I bided my time scanning the crowd with my camera. I found the boy and his mother from earlier. They sat in the closest seat next to the Riders’ dugout. If I leaned enough, I could grab perfect pictures. I made a mental note to always go back to them.
An announcer called out the starting lineup from each team. Riders emptied from the dugout as they jogged to their positionsin the field. Halfway through the announcement, a particular name caught my ear, as well as a familiar face heading out to center field. A voice boomed over the loudspeakers, “And batting third, center fielder, number sixteen, Romolo Moretti!” The stadium ignited with a two-syllable chant so deafening I thought the king of the world had deigned to join us. “Ro-mo! Ro-mo! Ro-mo!”
“Morollo Rometty?” I said aloud. My childhood speech impediment nearly forced me into saying, “Wamowo Mowetty.”
Beside me, Bill laughed. “Romolo Moretti,” he corrected, putting emphasis on the first syllable of each word.
“The Italianist name to ever Italian,” I said in response.
Again, Bill chuckled. I looked over. He had his eyes locked onto the screen of his video camera, a behemoth device that glided in movement like a hockey puck on ice. A larger man, he had enough sweat stains they made me want to fetch him some water. Bill said, “He’s first-generation Italian. Big, big family all back in Rhode Island.” He dared to look away from the camera’s display screen to say to me, “Romolo is his full name. Fans call him Romo. And from what I hear, friends call him Rome.”
I’m Rome, by the way. All roads lead to me.
Rome took his position, backdropped by those towering navy-blue matted walls.
“Have you… never seen a Riders game before?” Bill asked. He had returned to adjusting his camera.
Beside me, a fellow photographer scoffed and mumbled something about nepotism under his breath. I ignored him. “When I was a kid,” I confessed to Bill. “Trying to branch out.”
“Well, keep your eyes on Romo. He delivers every game.”
I planned on it.
The top of the first inning passed without anything catching my photographer’s eye. Nothing popped its way over to Rome in center field, although I did sneak a few zoom-ins to see himbouncing on his toes, rolling his neck, or jiggling his hips to stay loose. When the last batter struck out, the Riders drained off and the Thunder filled in. They wore black and gold uniforms, a thunderbolt stylized T stitched on their caps.
The first Rider batter made it to first and the second struck out. I snapped a few practice pics on them since I knew who was coming up third, thanks to the announcer earlier. Rome, already swinging an aluminum bat near the dugout, walked toward home base. Stadium speakers suddenly blared the chorus to “Roam” by the B-52’s, an entire stadium of nearly thirty thousand people clapping to the beat of the song as Rome put a little cock in his walk.
Clap-clap. Clap.
Clap-clap. Clap.
Clap-clap. Clap.
