4/27/2005
A new pet peeve
Maintaining eye contact. Done that.
Picking up numbers. No problem.
Subtle flirting. Check.
Knowing her essentials. In the list.
Slight touches. No blood, no foul.
Getting along with the parents. Over a bottle of beer.
However, there is still a chink in the armour, British English aside. After that grueling 4-5 hour conversation over landline or 100-peso worth of SMS exchange, I just couldn’t get over the hump. Meaning, in the recent telecommunication trysts I have had, I don’t seem to have the follow through to ensue another marathon telephonic conversation.
If this was basketball, I couldn’t convert in my offensive possession after getting that defensive stop at the other end of the court.
If this was football, my teammate set me up a perfect cross from the side but I couldn’t chip the ball into the back of the net.
If this was volleyball, the setter placed the ball where should it be, but the spiker hesitated a moment and his smash bounced off the net.
Want more analogies? I have two in baseball. Two runs down, one out, bottom of the ninth. The third base coach called for a squeeze play. I was supposed to bunt it towards the first base line so that the runner waiting in third base could sprint towards home.
But the ball ricocheted towards the pitcher and with some velocity at that. I ran towards first base to at least save my skin, but I know that this is not the way the play should work out. Behind me, the umpire at home plate screamed, Yerrr out!
World Series, game seven, bottom of the ninth, three runs down, two outs, bases loaded, full count. The crowd on their feet.
The pitcher coils for what is probably the final pitch of the championship series and of the season. The ball leaves the hand of the pitcher, it is going straight and fast. I call it is a fastball right in the middle of the plate, as if it is taunting me to hit it with full force, which is what I am supposed to do so that it would reach the stands down in center field.
With my heart throbbing and adrenaline running through my veins, I brace for the impact. I hear the crack of the bat. I look up, sighting the trajectory.
Then I feel a gust of wind on my cheek. I shiver as I check my fears in that split-second of realization. The ball is still going up, but it is not travelling any further.
The center fielder is on the warning track, like a predator stalking its prey, waiting for the right instant. Then he jumps up with his glove above his head, he hits the padded wall, and a blur of white stops just as the spot were his glove his at the top of his jump.
He falls on the ground on all fours, rolls away, reaches in his glove, and retrieves a white rubber sphere small enough to be grasped in one hand, but big enough to be seen by the crowd and the camera that beamed it towards the stadium big screen and the millions watching at home.
What now, coach?
