An ongoing exercise in creative nonfiction.
Another Labor Day has passed, signaling the home stretch of Major League Baseball's pennant races.
Our beloved Minnesota Twins are leading the AL Central, but the rebranded Cleveland Guardians (formerly known as the Indians*) are hot on their trail.
That was until last night, when the Twins decimated the Guardians 20 to 6. It seems both teams missed an extra point.
Switching gears, our creative nonfiction series is also heading into the home stretch.
For the uninitiated, I've been recounting events from the past youth baseball season, during which I coached my son's team—the Rockies. Some other clarifications:
Coach Tommy is my literary alter ego, also known as an "author surrogate."
The Swaggers serve as a stand-in for the Rockies' archrival, the Mets. While other team names have also been altered for the narrative, the Rockies retain their actual name.
I've assigned pseudonyms to the other real-life characters to protect their privacy (and avoid legal action).
Other than that, all the depicted personalities and occurrences are firmly rooted in reality, cross-verified with the official Rocky 2023 scorebook, courtesy of Dick's Sporting Goods in Richfield:
Every season starts at Dick's.™
To maintain the story's classification as "nonfiction"—i.e., to ensure readers I'm not getting too creative with the truth— I'm mulling over a combination of possible transparency measures for the finished product:
Author's Note: Brief explanations to clarify fictionalized elements.
Footnotes: Instant clarifications for creative liberties.
Acknowledgment Section: Provide context for the factual basis, in addition to thanking contributors.
Meta-commentary: Insert comments that break the "fourth wall"† to remind the reader of the blending of fiction and reality, though this can be disruptive to the narrative flow if overused.
Meta-commentary involves "stepping out," so to speak, of the main narrative to offer explanation and context. One of the finest examples of this technique—albeit in fiction that masquerades as nonfiction—happens to be my favorite fictional book, Vladimir Nabokov's Pale Fire.‡
The novel ingeniously employs meta-commentary to great comic effect, making it a rewarding, albeit challenging, read. This device is less frequently used in nonfiction and is typically taught only in specialized writing courses.§
But you are in luck, because today I will offer a free lesson in this advanced technique. To do so, I've allowed my surrogate, Coach Tommy, to don his editor's cap and interject his meta-commentary into the following footnotes.
* The term "Indians" remained in common parlance until approximately 2007, when the United Nations formally advised the use of "Indigenous Peoples" as a more respectful and accurate descriptor. Cleveland's baseball team followed suit—but not immediately. They rebranded as the Guardians in 2021, a nod to local statues known as the "traffic guardians." Thus, we've gone from a society that erects statues to honor notables to one that renames teams after them.
† "Breaking the fourth wall" is a literary device in which characters like me directly address you, the audience, disrupting the imaginary barrier between the story's world and reality. Originating in theater, this technique can deepen emotional engagement or add complexity. However, if overused, it risks jarring the reader out of the story's world. In that light, I promise to mercifully end this meta-commentary and jar you back to our baseball tale, but only after you suffer through two more "overused" footnotes.
‡ Pale Fire is a novel that toys with the traditional idea of a narrative through an expansive set of footnotes, comically digressing while offering multiple layers of storytelling via meta-commentary. Best of all, it makes fun of stuffy academics, who have it coming. Trust me, it's that rare non-baseball book worth reading, though I suspect most of you will never get around to it because of all the footnotes.
§ Courses and lessons on meta-commentary are usually offered in graduate-level writing programs, where students delve into advanced narrative techniques that make their writing impenetrable and hard to digest for simple, non-academic, baseball-loving folks like you and me (with the noteworthy exception of Pale Fire; see above).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Academics may address any complaints about the above discursive comments to Coach/Editor Tommy, who accepts full responsibility for his more extreme opinions.
We pick up where we left off with Coach Tommy's Rockies engaged in a down-to-the-wire pennant race against the Swaggers. And now, let's continue with our latest installment, aptly titled:
Fight to the Finish
On a Sunday evening, bathed in the gentle light of his home office lamp, Tommy pored over the Rockies' lineup for the crucial Monday late-afternoon matchup.
The room also functioned as a refuge for his editing projects, and just as he aimed for each manuscript to be impeccable, he wanted the same for his team's batting order.
Yet, staring back at him from the computer screen were a mere six RSVPs—two fewer than the league-minimum eight players required to field a team.
Notes from parents provided a clue to the attendance shortfall: "hockey practice."
In Tommy's mind, no sport should be allowed to overshadow baseball. Not in America.
As a decisive game loomed at Bloomington's esteemed Kent Hrbek Ball Fields, the season teetered on the brink. Its climactic run felt as if someone had stripped the final act from a Wagnerian opera.
To Tommy, it was akin to pulling a pitcher in the middle of a perfect game on the orders of a spreadsheet-obsessed analyst who rarely touched the grass of a ballfield.
Tommy recognized that in baseball, as in life, managers were often not so much the puppet masters as the ones hanging by a string. And he was coming to terms with a stark cultural contrast: in Minnesota, hockey practice had the kind of year-round reverence that amateur wrestling enjoyed in his home state of Iowa.
Minnesota's nickname, "The State of Hockey," suddenly made perfect sense to him.
Realizing the urgency of the moment, Tommy dialed Jerry, his ever-reliable second-in-command.
"Jerry, we're facing a hockey dilemma."
Unflappable as always, Jerry suggested a pragmatic alternative. "I bet the Swaggers' coach—what's his name again?"
"Jaxson. He prefers Jax," Tommy clarified.
"I bet Jax has encountered similar issues. How about contacting him to propose a delayed start? Meanwhile, I'll leverage my connections to excuse Mac, Ernie, and Stan early from practice."
"Your clout comes in handy," Tommy acknowledged.
Jerry chuckled knowingly. Not only was he Tommy's assistant baseball coach, but Jerry also wielded considerable influence as a board member of Bloomington's Youth Hockey League.
So Tommy switched off his desk lamp and retired for the night, hopeful that he and his opposing coach could come to a mutually agreeable decision in light of the hockey conflict.
Tommy slept soundly next to Peg, dreaming of a season-ending clash between his Rockies and the crafty Swaggers, a fight to the finish that would rival baseball's most celebrated showdowns.
Unbeknownst to him, however, the following day would serve as an inauspicious prelude to this idealized scenario.
As Monday dawned, Tommy remained virtually glued to his iPhone, making every possible effort to reach Jax. Despite exhausting all avenues of communication short of carrier pigeon, he faced an unyielding silence that persisted through the late afternoon.
As the clock ticked, the weather became a factor. The heat index soared to 110 degrees, near the league's automatic postponement level. Tommy's weather app sounded the alarm: "Extreme health risk."
Surely tonight's game can't go on, Tommy thought.
Yet, in the State of Hockey, where unpredictable weather patterns prevail, there's a saying: "If you don't like the current weather, just wait five minutes."
Indeed, as game time approached, the heat index dipped just enough for the league to green-light the event.
According to the RSVPs, Tommy's roster remained shaky at best: six confirmations, four maybes, three definite no-shows. A shortfall loomed large, putting them at very real risk of a forfeit.
By 5:45 p.m., despite the stifling heat, a handful of daring parents and even grandparents began to occupy the stands. This shift in venue offered a noticeable improvement in seating, compared to the tailgate chairs and blankets usually strewn about in foul territory ahead of past games.
Hrbek Fields was an electric but scorching stage for the uncertain game that was set to begin in no more than one half hour. Tommy turned his focus to the well being of his players, and phoned his better half. "Peg, we need you to bring our 10-gallon Igloo cooler filled to the brim with ice water and cups. It's a sauna out here!"
At 6 p.m., Jax finally materialized, his team apparently short-handed as well. "Hockey," he simply stated as he crossed paths with Tommy in front of the visitor dugout.
Tommy didn't have time to puzzle it out; he was too busy tracking when Jerry would be arriving with the three hockey amigos the Rockies would need to fill out the team. Their on-time arrival remained in severe doubt.
By 6:10 p.m., Umpire Tripp was anxiously pressing for a decision on the game's delayed start time. He gathered the coaches at home plate. Both teams were short on players, so they mutually agreed to an informal scrimmage to start at 6:30 p.m.
Then, at 6:14 p.m., Tommy saw out of the corner of his eye a welcome sight. Jerry and his group had arrived in the nick of time!
Suddenly, the Rockies had nine players. In Tommy's mind, that made an official gametime of 6:15 viable.
Or did it?
"No, no," Jax interrupted. "We've already committed to a 6:30 scrimmage because you said your team would be late."
Tommy hesitated. "That's true, but your team—"
Jax cut him off. "You said so," he retorted, brandishing his mobile device for emphasis. "You said your team would be late. That's why we can't start on time. You know what the rules say if one team can't start on time!"
One team?
Tommy stared at Jax, incredulous and speechless. Had Jax deliberately ignored his earlier messages only to use them now as a calculated weapon, advising his Swaggers it was fine to be late because a Rockies forfeit was inevitable?
The smirk spreading across Jax's face confirmed that Tommy had been outmaneuvered—the messages on his phone wielded as damning receipts—while Tommy had nothing to counter with.
Of all the low-down, dirty tricks. . . .
In legal terms, this was the epitome of a "gotcha moment," and Tommy was squarely on the receiving end.
As Jax returned his phone to his pocket, Tommy noticed him exchange a brief but weighty glance with one of his Swaggers—a kid from Tris's fourth-grade class whose parents had recently split up. The fleeting look complicated Tommy's impression of what just went down.
Although more than mildly displeased by Jax's tactics, the wear and tear of his long day left him too drained to object, particularly in front of his son, the other young players, and the gathering of parents and grandparents there to witness it all.
So the ump declared that the Rockies would have to forfeit the game. With a heavy sense of resignation, Tommy agreed.
Just then, at precisely 6:15, Peg appeared on schedule, hauling a cart with a gigantic water cooler to combat the heat and keep the Rockies hydrated. At least that crisis had been averted.
Finally, at 6:16, exactly one minute into the forfeit zone, the Lollipop Guild trio sauntered into the Swagger dugout. They, too, had been delayed by hockey practice.
Naturally, mused Tommy to himself. Hockey. That cursed word Jax had uttered to him upon his own arrival now made perfect sense.
Of course, the Guild's propensity for drawing walks in baseball would make them equally adept as hockey goalies, thanks to their low center of gravity.
In Major League Baseball, batters known for accumulating walks earn the label "selective hitters." However, the reticence to swing displayed by Jax's notorious threesome had less to do with discerning eyes or tactical acumen. Instead, it was a key element of Jax's sly strategy, aimed at disconcerting opposing pitchers and undermining the very ethos of youth baseball.
Tommy's overheated thoughts began to crystalize. It struck him that, had the game started at 6:15 with the Guild arriving a minute late, the forfeiture would have been on Jax, securing the Rockies a comfortable two-and-a-half-game lead in the standings. Even a mutual forfeit would have preserved their existing one-and-a-half-game advantage.
Nonetheless, as a result of the Rockies' forfeiture, the Swaggers now trailed by a miniscule half a game. This regrettable turn of events was the result of a hasty agreement made by Tommy under duress from a pushy umpire and sweltering heat. It was all too much to process or even care about. Though Tommy would later regret forfeiting, his exhaustion from the day left him too drained to contest it.
Imagine if the Swaggers had lost because of their three-headed secret weapon, the Lollipop Guild. Tommy sighed at the lost opportunity. Being a professional editor steeped in English literature, the irony was not lost on him. Not in the slightest.
Tommy pondered what Oscar Wilde might say: "Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes." His mind was too drained to come up with something less cliché.
Thus, the evening's game was relegated to a meaningless scrimmage, encapsulated by a rare swing from one of the Guild that resulted in a mere foul tip.
"Nice hit, Brayden!" a parent exclaimed.
"Are you kidding me?" Tommy muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness as he sat in the shadowy recesses of the visitor's dugout.
Cheering for a !@#$ foul tip?
Regarding the scrimmage's outcome, opinions were divided. Pepito, tallying runs on his fingers, was convinced the Rockies had won by a margin of five. Conversely, Mac, a known arithmetic whiz, contended they'd lost by three.
For Tommy's son Tris, the score was a non-issue; his attention had shifted to an impromptu kickball game that had started nearby once baseball was done.
One of the mothers in the stands quipped, "Where do these boys find the energy?"
Indeed, mused an emotionally drained Tommy. He, too, gave little thought to the scrimmage's final score. Given his earlier decision to forfeit, the scrimmage's impact on the league standings was academic. The true outcome was sealed before it even started.
As Tommy drove home with Tris, who had eventually tired of kickball, he pondered the day's intricate sequence of events: the calls that had gone unanswered, the immutable tradition of Monday hockey practice, and Jax's shrewd game of "Beat the Clock."
But this episode wasn't the end; it was a fresh beginning, another burning chip on Tommy's shoulder that would propel him and his Rockies to greater heights.
Resolute, Tommy aimed to pen the final chapter on the diamond, avoiding any additional pitfalls hidden in the rulebook's finer print, to craft an ending befitting baseball's storied history—a genuine fight to the finish.
Next week, Chapter Seven: "The 7th-Inning Stretch" . . .
Comments