At me? I wasn’t sure.
I pulled away from the camera and exchanged the same curious look with Bill.
I put my eye back to the camera, trying my best to ignore if he was really trying to wink at me or was being playful in general. As I viewed him through the camera, something felt off, but I was too wrapped up in the crowd cheering his name as “Roam” tapered off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I had the pad of my forefinger jammed down on the button of my camera as the ball came down the line.
Rome leaned into it again andcrack!This one flew low and went to the ground along the first base line but stayed in play. Rome burst into lightning-fast action as his body launched from home plate and sprinted toward first. The ball went beyond theplate, where the first baseman hoofed it as fast as his cleats could allow. He swept up the ball, spun, and dashed to the base. I had my camera trained on Rome the whole time, following his movements as if I operated the video camera like Bill. Time slowed back to a crawl as Rome dove chest first into the dirt and slid until he collided with the white plate. I heard someone yell, “Safe!” and Rome popped to his feet. The first baseman lobbed the ball away, spat, and glared at Rome.
I lowered my camera and realized I hadn’t breathed.Is this how people feel when watching this game?I wondered.
“Got my good side, right?” Rome said. The base wasn’t that far from our camera well and it was obvious he spoke right at me.
I felt all eyes in the well turn on me. Iwantedto say, “As if you have a bad side,” but instead I ended up giving him the thumbs-up again. He smiled, put his hands on his hips, and returned his attention to the diamond.
“What’s gotten into this guy?” Bill asked through a laugh.
“Beats me. You know this team better than I do,” I told Bill. I started to say more, but he shouted for my attention to return to the field. Rome had broken into another sprint. I had never seen someone move so quickly in real time before. He moved like a bolt of lightning, a blur of blue and bronze as he closed the gap between him and second base. The pitcher had already thrown and the catcher popped to his feet, throwing to the second baseman.
I forgot about my camera. A discarded relic like a childhood toy. My eyes locked on Rome as he slid on his legs this time, left cleat touching the corner of the base a hair of a moment before the second baseman tagged Rome’s shoulder with his glove. The crowd roared. I whispered, “Ro-mo, Ro-mo,” right along with them. Bill snickered.
“It’s a great game, isn’t it?” Bill asked.
“Yeah, it’s something.”
I reviewed the photos on my camera. The odd thing that hit me earlier had made itself apparent. I stared at the photo of Rome up to bat in confusion. “I thought he was a righty. He’s batting lefty here.” I showed the photo to Bill.
The man didn’t look away from his screen. “He’s a switch-hitter, kid. One of the best in the league, too. He changes based on what hand the pitcher is using.”
So that’s where the term comes from.
Unfortunately, the next batter struck out and ended the inning. Rome jogged in from second base and looked over. No wink or smile, just a long stare that seemed to convey something I didn’t quite understand.
The next innings moved a lot faster as I had come to enjoy the game more. Bill provided commentary every time I made a funny face or didn’t understand something. The other photographers in the well had called for us to keep it down so they could concentrate, but Bill laughed them off. He had unspoken seniority.
At the seventh inning stretch (a new term Bill taught me), the mood of the crowd shifted. The next part I at least already had an understanding of. Any New England boy would. “Midnight Rider” by the Allman Brothers blared. The whole crowd sang along, really putting their souls into the line about a silver dollar. I sang along like any other fan. As the spectators grabbed beer and popcorn, the New England Riders’ mascot made his famous appearance.
Gates at the back of the left outfield opened as a black stallion galloped out onto the warning track. A patriot-looking colonial American, resplendent in a tricorn hat, spurred the stallion toward home plate along the dirt. On the jumbotron, dual lanterns came to light inside a church steeple as the Midnight Rider galloped along the sidelines with a brass speakingtrumpet, shouting, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” I grabbed a token shot of the Midnight Rider’s exit, the horse going rampant and then dashing beneath the gates.
As the crowd died down, Rome emerged again from the dugout. He held a navy-blue batting helmet, this one with multiple autographs on it in silver ink. I lifted my camera in time to capture the boy’s third gift. My focus was on the mother, whose eyes glistened with tears as she pressed a hand to her mouth. Rome and the boy fist-bumped and the small smile on him was photo-perfect. Rome glanced over his shoulder at me as he went back to the dugout. Another indecipherable gaze.
“He’s so…giving,” I said.
“That’s one of the reasons why the fans love ‘im,” Bill said.
The bottom of the seventh passed quickly enough, as did the remaining two innings. The Riders won, two to one. After the last call, cheers undulated through the stadium as hordes of media folks flooded the field. All at once, my little concrete well with a perfect view of the field became obstructed by churning bodies, glaring lights, and enough equipment to film a Hollywood movie. Bill shut down his camera and made adjustments to place the device in its resting spot. He pulled a canvas cover over it as the other photographers packed up their gear.
I stayed where I was, locked into place. I spied through the crowd, hunting for a tall player. Too many people, too much noise. I’d never find him.
And if I did… then what? “Hey, I know you’re a straight athlete who probably has a new woman every night, but any chance you’d want to go on a date?”
I was climbing out of the well before I knew it. Maybe if I was on the field, he’d see me and come over. Maybe—
“Kid,” Bill called to me. “You can’t be on the field. Come on, get down. They’ll kick you out and pull your pass. Come on!”he repeated when I didn’t move. I dropped back to the concrete floor and Bill grabbed my shoulder. “Congrats, kid, you’re a baseball fan. Now get in line like the rest of us.” He snickered to himself, turned, and waddled away on unsteady feet.
I spun to the field. I hadn’t a clue how long a postgame media session would last, but I could only assume the players would return to the clubhouse, change, and head home. My visitor’s pass was good for only one day—it was the best Devin could get me. I didn’t know if my photos would be good enough for them to want me to come back. I’d probably never have the chance…
There. The crowd parted as if by my mental command. Rome had just finished an interview and the blaring light in his faced winked out. His eyes locked on mine and he smiled, my face mirroring his. His lips moved but I could neither read them nor hear him. I shook my head and I saw his chest inflate as if to yell when a teammate tugged at him from behind and hitched a thumb over his shoulder. Another came and pushed him along toward the dugout. Rome lost his footing, stumbled, but righted himself and glanced back over his shoulder at me. All I could do was wave goodbye. In a moment, the current of his teammates swallowed him up.
You’ll never see him again, the devil on my shoulder told me.
