The Homerun

What is this Baseball?

October 1988

The first thing that I learned about my in-laws was that they did not follow sports. Not even casually, not in the least; not even my in-law’s in-laws followed sports. But the Chamichians and Keledjians were such good, gracious, fun to be around people that it didn’t bother me in the least. Ok, there were times in the early years of my marriage when it seemed odd to say, watch a Superbowl or an NBA Final alone, which is what I did on two of the most historic games in sports history, the Steelers Cowboys matchup and the Magic Johnson game where he played center because Kareem Abdul Jabbar was having one of his notorious migraines. (Right at this moment, if you are a sports fan you are saying, “Of course!” and are recalling both those games.) And when Kellen Winslow played his heart out for the San Diego Chargers in the most famous playoff game ever, I was furniture shopping with my beautiful bride. It never occurred to me that there would be people who wouldn’t follow sports. My brother did, my uncles did, my sister knew the difference between the Rose Bowl and the World Series, my dad and I would watch Gillette Fight Night or Dodger games on tv, cousins, neighbors, friends, clerks, barbers, strangers, everyone followed sports, I thought. But my in laws didn’t, and they didn’t care that they didn’t. I had thought that sports were the vine that immigrants could grab to get into the swing of our modern world here in the U.S. That’s how it was for my Dad’s cousins who boxed, ran track and played football. Not the Chamichians though. Their indifference about sports was so rare and unusual to me that I considered it really pretty cool. But there were some interesting moments when the Middle East met West.
In my Burbank, my hometown, the Dodgers are much beloved. Southern Californians are too casual to live and die for their team but they certainly have an affinity for them. I grew up loving everything about them—Dodger Stadium, Dodgers Dogs, Dodger Blue, and the spiffy Dodger logo. The singsong voice of announcer Vince Scully was like some cantor of sports, letting all the Dodger congregation know that the Dodgers were on the field and that the world was safe and secure for now. I knew the names Don Drysdale, Sandy Koufax, and Maury Wills before I even knew what they did and why those names were good.
In 1988 the Dodgers had an exceptional year. They battled their way to the World Series where they were underdogs to the formidable Oakland A’s. On October 15 they played game one at Dodger Stadium. I was primed to tune in and watch the game alone, but we were scheduled to visit my in laws that night. Well, I thought it’s game one. There will be more to see. Maybe though, Jamil, my father in law, will be watching the news. Maybe the remote will be in plain sight. Maybe….
“I hope you’re not thinking of putting the game on tonight” Grace warned, “it’s not polite. They’re just not into it.” Fair enough I thought. I tuned in the game on the radio and drove as slowly as I could. My Dodgers were losing. When we got out of the car at 1353 North First, the Dodgers were one run down headed to the bottom of the 9th. We ate fruit and sat in the living room. Millions of tv’s were on all over the country, but not where we were. Cars whizzed by on First; surely all of the drivers had the game on the radio. Not us. I thought of the short story where a man overhears a description of a horrible crime and he starts to feel as though a metal band is tightening on his head. A little while later I was thinking of a game show where the host chose someone from the audience and told him to guess when a minute had gone by. If the contestant came within 10 seconds of the minute, he’d win $100; if he went over 60 seconds, zero. I knew if I waited too long, I’d miss the crucial deciding moment of the game, and the metal band was tightening on my head. Grace went in the kitchen with her mom. This was my last chance.
“Badveli, do you like baseball?”
“Baseball?”
“Yeah, you know, baseball. A ball, a bat.”
“I don’t like.”
“You don’t? Why? What sport do you like?”
“Soccer. When I was boy, we played Soccer all day long.”
“Yes. We took rock and cloth. Make a soccer ball.”
“Yeah? That’s pretty good. Have you ever seen baseball?”
“No. I think baseball no good.”
“No good?”
“No good.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe you should see it. See if you like it. I wonder if there is a game on tv right now?”
“Baseball?”
“Yeah, baseball. Let’s see here. Oh! Here’s a game.”
“What is this baseball?”
There were two outs in the bottom of the 9th with one man on. Kirk Gibson, who not only did not start, but wasn’t even in the dugout due to severe injuries, was called to duty by the manager, Tommy Lasorda. Gibson limped to the batter’s box.
“Uh, well baseball is…”
“What do they do? What is that man trying to do?” He pointed at the screen. Ah ha! He was interested after all.
“He’s trying to hit the ball.”
“That ball? So small ball?”
“Yes, that ball.”
Gibson was looking at one of baseball’s best closers. He had an 0-2 count. He was clearly in pain but still battling.
“With that stick?”
“Yes! With that stick. Yes.”
“Where? Where does he want to hit it?”
“Right now, over that wall there.”
“So far? That ball? So far? That small stick?”
Gibson had worked the pitcher to a full count. He might get his pitch but he had to hit it out; he could not run.
“Yes. So far. That ball. That stick.”
By now I was kneeling in front of the tv. I couldn’t explain to him that it was the last strike of the last out of the 9th inning in game one of the World Series, which the Dodgers were supposed to lose.
“I don’t know. He can’t hit that ball so far. Soccer is better game. Whole world plays soccer. Baseball, I don’t know.”
Gibson got his pitch, turned on it and somehow muscled it over the right field wall. Dodger Stadium exploded. Gibson gimped his way triumphantly around second, pumping his fist. I was still kneeling before the tv, both hands raised toward the ceiling. I knew he wouldn’t understand if I started shouting, but I sure wanted to. We both looked on silently, watching the spectacle. Jamil stared quizzically, then finally spoke.
“They eh don’t do that very often, do they?”
“No, Badveli, they sure don’t do that very often.” He sat passively. I couldn’t do anything but love him.