Sunday Scribblings: Sports

The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings, the 150th prompt, is "Sports."
"Um, how about sports? To follow up on last week's 'Art' with something very different. Sports: love em? Hate em? Forced to do em as a kid? Serious athlete? Fanatic about watching/playing? Any experiences stand out in your memory?
For me, a short piece of fiction:

Through his company, dad grudgingly went to community health to get a flu shot. He instead got stuck with a syringe full of THG, with a sidecar of human growth hormone.
A week later at softball, he went five-for-five with four dingers and a triple that just bounced fair from the 325-foot fence line. He showed power to all fields, and ran like a gazelle between the base pads.
In the stands was a Carolina League scout, on a fluke visit to his in-laws when he decided to take in a beer-league softball game instead of having to listen to his mother-in-law talk about her utter lack of grandchildren.
He signed dad to a contract, right there with a sweet bonus, and told him to report Kinston, North Carolina High A affiliate. In his first two weeks, he hit .436 as the Indians’ designated hitter.
He bypassed the rest of the A leagues and made his major-league debut against the Kansas City Royals. A night game at the Jake. He wrote mom’s name on the swoosh of his shoes, in Sharpie.
And proceeded to go three-for-four, with two dingers, a double and a single.
At his debut at The House That Ruth Built, dad tore tendons in his ankle trying to stretch a dying quail into a double.
He tested positive at the hospital and the report was leaked to the press.
Dogged by reporters, the harsh camera lights, dad retired just after the Indians were mathematically eliminated for the A.L. wild card slot. And was promptly summoned to Congress, where he declined to discuss juicing in baseball in front of a House subcommittee.
“I never knowingly took steroids,” is all he said.
Back in the city leagues, dad rejoiced in the simplicity of the game: You hit the ball, you catch the ball, you throw the ball. Besides, the beer was always cold, you could hit in a pair of torn sweat pants - and the crisp fall air still buzzed with the cadence of crickets.
In the concrete dugout, which smelled of stale Marlboros and domestic beer, the guys from work joked with him about the company flu shots, which were scheduled for the day-after-tomorrow, at community health.
“Fuck that,” he said, picking up an aluminum bat to go swing in the on-deck circle. “I think I’ll take my chances this year.”


Meri Arnett-Kremian said...

Timely. Funny. Ooops, I didn't know what it was! And please don't put an asterisk next to my name in the record books.

Hal Johnson said...

Love it.

Jeff W Bach said...

Ha, Loved that story!

Tumblewords: said...

Is that the way it happened? :) Good story! Timely and telling.

quin browne said...

"the crisp fall air still buzzed with the cadence of crickets."

le sigh.

Anonymous said...

For me, you are the perfect storyteller :)