Back Into the Swing of Spring

Thwang.

The sound of an aluminum bat striking a yellow plastic ball might not satisfy baseball purists. It’s hardly the stuff of Ring Lardner or Grantland Rice, the crack of hickory against horsehide and all that. Still, for me anyway, it’s satisfying enough, and also it is a sound of the season. Forget what the calendar might say: Spring has come to California, and a rite of spring, for me anyway, is a return to the Glendale Batting Cages.

Thwang.

The facility is not fancy. It consists of a blacktop lot surrounded by netting and equipped with a line of well-worn pitching machines. The machines are calibrated for varying speeds and bear the names of famous pitchers. The fastest, which slings balls at about 80 m.p.h., is designated the “Koufax” cage. The next fastest is “Drysdale.” Little Leaguers hit in the Vida Blue cage, a clear case of regional bias.

Thwang.

I started coming here about 10 years ago. At first, it was to sharpen softball skills. Later, I hooked up with a senior sandlot league for hardball has-beens and never-weres, and logged even more cage time. And now, even though I moved last fall to Northern California, I found myself as the weather turned almost drawn back to the Glendale cages. There’s a bit more involved than batting practice. I understand that the ability to hit a fastball counts for little in everyday grown-up life. Still, the discovery each spring that the eye and reflexes have survived another winter provides a measure of comfort. Perhaps it’s a flimsy hold on something certain not to last. Whatever, I’ll take it.

Thwang.

It was warm enough Monday afternoon to hit only in shorts and a T-shirt. The air was sweet, and the sunlight’s tint and texture was of the sort that first put California on the map: golden. To the east, the San Gabriels were greening up. Above, a skywriting airplane inscribed a large heart over Los Angeles. Who knows why? It was spring. And it also was still February.

Thwang.

All sorts can be found at the cages. Little Leaguers, male and female. Softball players, male and female. Serious young men who spend hours learning to hit the other way. Fathers who come to coach their sons, revealing, as they lose it, too much emotional investment in the exercise. The cage next to mine was occupied by four high school kids. They were rusty. From their cage came the “thwap” of missed balls striking the rubber backstop, and also constant chatter.

“You are pulling your head, dude.”

“That swing looks so stupid, dude.”

Thwap.

Concentration counts. If the mind wanders, so will the bat. To hit at the cage is to forget about the everyday. That’s part of the payoff. On Monday I forgot about gubernatorial candidates and the California economy, about the tax man and a dog that won’t behave. I focused on keeping my head down, my arms out and my eyes on the ball. I just hit. It was fun. The joints were loose, the sweat came easy, the contact was solid. It was spring, and who cares about the rest of it anyway?

Thwang.

One thing I’ve observed at the cage is that crossing rituals of season can produce poor results. Young bucks who bring girlfriends out to admire their seasonal debut invariably find themselves unable to make contact with the ball . . . or maintain contact with the belle. They huff and puff and curse and blame the bat and the angle of the pitches. Their captive audiences of one, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes bemused, will look the other way, purse lips and, it seems, muse in silence over what is worse--a boyfriend who is a klutz, or a boyfriend who cares too much about not looking like a klutz? Romance can make hitting fastballs seem like simple business.

Thwang.

The fellows in the next cage over did not last long. One of their coaches had shown up to tender much advice about locking elbows and pivoting hips. Their ears and their hearts, though, were elsewhere. To mention but a few of the relevant parts.

“Let’s go call Nicki, dude,” one suggested to the others.

“Tell her to call Clara and let her know we’re coming over,” said another.

“Find out if Alice is over there, dude,” pitched in a third.

“You guys need to get ready for the game Friday,” the coach objected.

He didn’t stand a chance. His charges took a few more cuts, turned their caps around backward, and then shambled away down Colorado Boulevard, revealing as they went a lot more quickness than they’d shown at the plate. Ah, sighed the “fud” one cage over, it’s spring. No, dude, he corrected himself, it’s a fastball. Now swing.

Thwang.