DOG DAYS OF SUMMER
I stepped up to the pitcher's mound, a dog dish, and stared at the batter, my ten-year-old sister. She signaled that she was ready and held up the bat. Our dog, playing outfield, watched from under a tree. The umpire was my father. I wiped the sweat from my brow, eyed the ball in my hand, and tossed the first pitch. It went straight up in the air and landed ten feet to the left of the batter. "Ball One," said my father, as he recovered the ball from the outfielder. "Give me the ball. Ginger. Drop it! Good girl." Ginger returned to her position beneath the tree. The umpire wiped off the dog spitwith a towel that represented home plate, replaced it andfired the ball back to me. I missed it, andran back and picked it upbefore the outfielder got to it.
It wasthe summer of 1948,in Bridgeport, Michigan, and we were playing baseball in our backyard. I focused onthe towel, and threw a secondpitch. This one landed on the ground three feet in front of my sister and rolled passed the towel. "Ball Two!" said my father. He picked up the ball and tossed it back. I caught the ball this time, swallowed hard, dusted it off,and hurled another pitch. This time it hit the batter. My sister dropped the bat, turned on her heels and headed to the house. As she was the only player on her team, the umpire had to convince her to stay for the sake of the game. "If he hits me again, I'm leaving," said my sister. "Ball Three!" said my father. "For heaven's sake get it over the plate this time," and he threw the ball back to me.
I focused on the towel, as I had never done before. Once more, I stepped up to the dog dish and delivered the throw. This time, it wentright over the towel. My sister was so surprised she forgot to swing. My father was so surprised he shouted, "Ball Four!" Hearing the call, my sister ran to the dog dish, which not only acted as the pitcher's mound but also as first base. She tagged it and headed home, bringing in the wining run.
"But it was right over the towel!" Icomplained to the umpire. "It was a strike!" "Well,' my father said,'You've never thrown a strike before in your life.So don't blame me if I called it wrong." And the game was over.
Relieved of her duties my sister went inside. My father grabbed the dog dish and followed her. The dog followed the dog dish. I stayed outside on the pitcher's mound.