Home Plate

 

It is the last of the four bases that a runner must touch in succession to score a run. 

The sun was hitting the glass - which I guess is what caught my attention.  Had I left it there?  I don’t remember.  I lifted it to my nose and inhaled.  My best guess was stale gin.  It was a little pungent and the sunlight on the glass exaggerated every finger print and lip print which somehow lent an unclean feel to the entire kitchen. 

Unbeknownst to me I found my living-room had been transported to the top of the eighth inning.  Where had I been?  The television announcer had mispronounced something.  It was just enough to snag my attention and it made me stop, like if I moved or made a noise it would be distraction enough so no one else would notice his mistake, but then I felt dumb for just standing there.  Oblivious to his error, the announcer went on with his jabber and then cut to commercial.

I didn’t like feeling this way and now, for whatever reason, the whole house smelled like a dirty ashtray.  Had there been a party I didn't remember?  My head felt all fuzzy and I wanted to sit back down.  The blaring commercials kept me from heading towards the living-room.  I wasn’t in the mood to hear anyone trying to sell me anything.  I headed the other way and slid out a chair from the dining room table.  Yesterday’s mail sat in a small stack across from me and my feet felt around for the chair rung.

Firemen came rushing in through the front door and everyone seemed so excited.  There must have been a homerun.  I really should get back in there and watch the game.  What kind of host wanders off to sit by himself in another room?  Everything was so loud; voices and scurrying and the crying.  Why was she crying?  Did I miss something?  I could tell now that it wasn’t the television making all the commotion; it was everyone in the living-room.  Was it over?  Had we won? 

I still had that terrible ashtray smell with me.  I needed to go outside and get some fresh air in my lungs but as I was about to stand the firemen came barging back through the kitchen heading towards the front door and they were carrying me on a stretcher.  Cool, I was getting a ride.  Say… I don’t look so good.

I don’t remember climbing into the ambulance or any of them making room for me, but there we were zipping down Walnut heading out to 57^th.

Only one of the firemen seemed to be fussing over my body as I effortlessly floated overhead watching.  The other fireman was thinking about the second mortgage he and his wife just took out. He was dying to talk about it with Sam, the one who suddenly just stopped worrying about me.  As he sat back in his seat he scribbled something on a clipboard and then told the driver there was no hurry.

 I could smell the hotdogs at the ball field and as the ambulance siren quickly faded the voices of the crowd came in very clear.  My entire section of the bleachers was filled with old friends and family.  Dad was smiling at me, waving one of those giant foam fingers.  I loved that smell and it was quite exciting, as if I myself had just slid into home.