Best Seats in the House

by Sam Arlington

“What’s that on the man’s belt?” my daughter asks. She’s pointing at the triangular bulk of molded black plastic on the batter’s hip. I didn’t notice it at first against his charcoal gray uniform. She sips her lemonade and rattles the ice around in the bottom of the cup.

“Looks like a pistol. Forty-five, I’d say,” I answer. The umpire doesn’t seem concerned. “I guess that’s allowed now.” The game has changed since I played. New rules every season. I have trouble keeping up.

“Oh,” she says absently, taking a bite of hot dog. She has half of one left and a little popcorn. She checks the count on the scoreboard above center field. Three and two.

“How’s your hot dog?” I ask.

“Yummy,” she says, grinning and poking a stray bit of bun back into her mouth with her finger. She giggles.

This is her first game. It’s all she’s talked about for a week. She’s been beaming since we walked in, clutching her crumpled ticket and showing it to anyone who will look. PREMIUM SEATING, it says, in embossed gold capital letters. She picked out a navy cap with a red bill at the team shop. She wears it down low over her eyes. Her hair sticks out the sides, the tops of her ears peeking through the sandy gold mop.

She’s only five, but she’s pretty good on the rules. She has a book. Even knows the starting lineup from the radio broadcasts we listen to in the car sometimes. She’s bright, this one. Started reading at two, memorizing baseball stats at three. Lord knows what’s going on in there that she hasn’t let us in on yet. I know everyone thinks their kid is special and unique, but this one is, well… gifted, you could say. It’s a blessing and a curse. It’s amazing, that brain of hers, but not without its complications: the sensitivity, the outbursts, the precociousness. It’s a full-time job keeping her engaged and out of trouble. Hence the ball games. They focus her.

We have the best seats in the house. First baseline, front row, between the plate and home dugout, next to the unlocked field access gate. We can hear the players chattering on the bench. The on-deck hitters take their practice swings six feet in front of us. It’s like we’re in the game, except for the black nylon netting between us and the infield. I like the minor leagues. They might not have the big names, but they play like they’ve got something to prove. That, and I can park right next to the door. There wasn’t even a line for hot dogs.

The pitcher winds up and throws a scorcher of a fastball, right down the middle. The batter swings for the fences, spinning almost completely around. The catcher’s mitt snaps back with a thwap! as the ball slaps the worn rawhide. The home umpire points down the first baseline. The base umpire sweeps his arms from side to side. Check swing. The batter tosses his bat and trots down to first.

“Attaboy, Jimmy,” the visiting manager shouts to the batter through cupped hands. “You take what’s yours.” He waves a raised middle finger at the mound and spits, glaring at the pitcher.

Espinosa, the catcher, throws off his mask and argues with the umpire. The home manager jogs out to the plate, waving his half-raised hands toward the umpire, palms out, a nervous smile on his face. He puts his arm around Espinosa and talks to him closely, sternly, like a worried father. The visiting manager, watching the exchange, picks up the dugout phone.

“Why did he get a walk?” my daughter asks, scrunching up her face.

“They called a ball and a check swing,” I say, summarizing the umpires’ joint ruling. I don’t really have the grounds to argue otherwise from my vantage.

“But he—” She stops, looking up at me as I put my hand on her shoulder and raise the pointer finger of my other hand to my lips. I don’t want her getting all worked up. She has a tendency to let her emotions run away with her.

“Let’s just watch,” I say. “It’s only one play.” She nods hesitantly, a disapproving look on her face.

A door opens behind the visitors’ bullpen in left field foul territory. Two armed men in khaki cargo pants, black ball caps, and tan tactical vests emerge and walk briskly toward the infield, their faces obscured by balaclavas. They reach home plate and grab Espinosa by the arms, zip tie his hands behind his back, and drag him down the third baseline toward the bullpen door. He struggles at first, then puts his head down and walks calmly.

The visiting bench hurls slurs and jeers as he passes. His teammates murmur quietly amongst themselves. One glares at the men and spits on the ground. The visiting manager hollers something unintelligible and throws a handful of sunflower seeds that shower the grass around Espinosa’s feet. The home manager walks slowly back to the bench, hands in his pockets. A few scattered boos rise out of the stands, not nearly as many as you’d think. Mostly people simply watch. Some go to the concession stand or the restrooms.

“Is he in trouble?” my daughter asks.

“Looks that way,” I answer. The bullpen doors close behind the men as they vanish into the darkness.

“Is it because he talked back to the umpire?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I say. It is. They’ve been getting stricter on argumentation enforcement lately.

“That’s not right,” she says, scowling. “Talking is allowed.”

“Well…” I shrug. She’s right, but I don’t have a good response in the moment, so I look back to the field. I can feel her eyes on me.

The second-string catcher trots out from the bench. He pulls down his mask and smacks his glove with a fist.

“Ugh,” she says. “Mayfield. He’s got the dropsies.” I smile and tilt my head to the side. She’s not wrong. He leads the team in errors.

The next hitter, a giant of a man with shoulders nearly as wide as the batter’s box, walks up to the plate. He has a bushy blond mustache and a black rifle slung across his back.

“Hey!” my daughter says loudly, pointing at the man. “No fair!” The umpire briefly glances in our direction.

I shush her and pat her shoulder. “Let’s not make a scene,” I say. “We don’t want to get kicked out like Espinosa.” She harumphs and crosses her arms tightly, poking out her bottom lip. She’s got a bit of a temper, I may have mentioned, and we’re within earshot of the field.

The umpire signals timeout, and the visiting manager walks to the plate. They confer quietly. All we can make out is “no long guns.” The manager leans closer to the umpire, pointing a finger in his face, and raises his voice. The umpire shrugs and shakes his head, holding his arms out to his sides, palms up. The manager winds up and slaps him hard on the cheek, nearly knocking him over. The big batter drops his bat and steps back, swings his rifle around, and levels it at the umpire. The left field bullpen door opens. The two armed men who grabbed Espinosa reemerge and stand outside the bullpen with their arms folded. The home umpire looks down the first baseline, a hand on his reddened cheek. The base umpire stares back, hands on his knees.

“Play ball,” the umpire calls after a moment, and the visiting manager stalks back to his bench, cursing. The pitch clock starts. The batter re-slings his rifle, picks up his bat, and steps back into the box. The pitcher lobs an easy fastball over the center of the plate. The batter watches it go by and looks at the umpire. The scoreboard count shows ball one. The bullpen men scan the infield and stands. More armed men, these in civilian clothes, some wearing visiting team caps, loom menacingly in the aisles of the stands. I didn’t see them come in.

“That’s not how you play. They’re not playing right,” my daughter grumbles, slouched in her seat, arms crossed. I’m relieved to see she’s cooled off. I really don’t want any trouble. I want to sit quietly and enjoy my game in peace, even if it’s not quite the same lately. We have the best seats in the house. It would be a shame to waste them.

I look around the field. The defense looks demoralized and listless. The shortstop has taken off his glove and sits cross-legged in the dirt. The left fielder, agitated, shouts something toward him that we can’t quite make out. The center fielder shuffles over to the right field bullpen, drops his hat in the grass, and lets himself out. The first baseman squats, his arms resting on his knees. My daughter throws up her hands in disgust. She wants to say something, but I can see she’s holding her tongue. We’ve talked about moderating her reactions. She’s doing well.

Suddenly the left fielder curses loudly and throws down his glove, then lets out a blood-curdling yell and charges toward home. One of the armed bullpen men runs him down from behind and tackles him. The other catches up and hauls him to his feet. The two drag him to the bullpen door, thrashing all the way. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, but no one moves. My daughter shakes her head.

“Hey, batter batter!” someone yells from the stands to our left, halfway up. I turn to look. A drunken young man stands on his seat, gesturing obscenely toward the visitor dugout. A few people get up and move away from him. Others pretend not to notice. He lurches backward suddenly, as if yanked to the ground from behind. Nearly simultaneously a sharp crack reverberates through the stadium. I look out toward center field, where the sound came from. A man in a black ball cap and tactical vest is kneeling on the iron grating in front of the scoreboard, looking through the scope of a rifle. He racks the bolt back, then forward.

My daughter looks up at me wordlessly, fuming, waiting for an explanation. She leans forward, peering around me to see where the young man fell. I follow her gaze briefly. Some of the people around the man look out at the field, waiting for the next pitch. A few get up and leave. The man’s feet rest on the back of the seat, one shoe off, the rest of him mercifully out of sight below.

“I don’t—” I begin, turning back to my daughter. She had asked about the Hecklers Will Be Shot sign at the entry gate, unfamiliar with the word. I told her it was just to scare people, to make them behave. I didn’t think they would really do it. These rule changes. They’re too much to keep up with. “Want some more lemonade?” I say, hoping to redirect her attention.

She looks at me incredulously, then back at the plate. “Whatever,” she says tersely. There’s a shimmer in the corner of her eye. She’s really upset.

I flag down the drink vendor. He’s got some lemonade in cans. Good enough. I pay him and turn to refill my daughter’s cup. Her seat is empty, and the field access gate is open. I look up frantically to see her walking toward home plate, fists balled at her sides. My stomach sinks, and I drop the lemonade can. I open my mouth to call to her, but nothing comes out. I really didn’t want any trouble. I just wanted a nice day out with my kid.

“Hey!’ she shouts at the umpire. “Do you know the rules? Because it doesn’t look like you know the rules.” She stops at his feet, craning up to see his face from under the brim of her low-slung cap. Her question isn’t rhetorical. She expects an answer. He stands there mute, stunned. The batter steps back from the box and smooths his mustache, glancing toward his dugout and smiling in amusement. A few people in the crowd stand to get a better look. One woman leans forward, her hand over her mouth. The stadium is silent. I know I should get up, go get her, but I’m frozen in place. I can’t bear to watch.

The visiting manager storms out of the dugout, seething, his jowly face red as a beet. He throws down his cap as he stomps to the plate, teeth bared, spittle on his chin.

“Now listen here, you little shit!” he snarls, reaching out to grab my daughter by the arm. I can’t look. I close my eyes. I know what’s coming, or at least the gist of it.

Sure enough, there it is. A series of sickening cracks echoes through the silent ballpark as the manager’s extended arm snaps in at least three places. I open one eye to see it dangling limply at his side, extra joints bulging through the skin. He howls like an animal and drops to his knees, clutching the useless appendage with his good arm.

The burly batter, eyes wide, takes a hesitant step back and reaches for his rifle, missing it on the first try, then finding the stock and swinging it around. My daughter holds her hands over her ears and grimaces, eyes closed tight, partly because of the manager’s piercing screams and partly because of the headache that always comes with these episodes. The umpire stumbles backward and cowers against the infield wall a few feet to my left.

“Shoot her, you fucking idiot! Shoot the kid!” the manager screams at the batter.

A few of the visiting players stand up in the dugout. The big batter looks back at them, then aims his rifle at my daughter. I close my eyes tight and put my head on my knees, unable to look, unable to move.

There’s a moment of silence, then the rifle’s report fills the ballpark, its dissipating echo followed by shocked gasps from the stands. An angry bumblebee buzz jars me out of my panicked paralysis, and I open my eyes. The rifle bullet spins in place, suspended in the air three inches in front of my daughter’s face, buzzing wildly. It glows orange, then white hot as it spins faster, its pitch whining higher and higher. The stunned batter falls heavily to his knees, mouth open, to face my daughter at her level. His rifle clatters to the ground by his side.

She looks calmly into his terrified eyes and blinks, furrowing her brow slightly. The bloodied point of a massive Bowie knife juts through the front of his gray jersey, its hilt in the hand of a stone-faced teammate standing behind him. The on-deck hitter steps up and takes a grand slam swing, burying the weighted purple batting donut into the side of the mustachioed rifleman’s skull. The big man collapses sideways and comes to rest in front of the kneeling manager, a pulsing gray mass protruding from the rectangular hole in his crushed temple.

My daughter pirouettes around to face the center field scoreboard, placing one foot in front of the other and raising one arm high above her head in a fourth position en haut, like she learned in ballet class. I follow her gaze to see a frothy pink slurry dripping through the iron grating from a formless mass of khaki and pulp above.

A rifle dangles by its sling from the scaffolding below. A few feet to the left, a black-clad man wearing a spotter’s scope on a lanyard stumbles out from behind a mesh screen with an inhuman screech. He claws with shredded, bloody stumps at the steaming holes where his eyes should be. My stomach turns and I gag. I can hear someone behind me throwing up.

My daughter stretches her arm out and leans forward on one foot, raising the other leg behind her in a deep, exaggerated arabesque. She taps the white-hot spinning bullet with the tip of her extended toe, redirecting it over her head and toward the scoreboard with rifle velocity. It splashes through the spotter’s mangled face and out the back of his head, leaving a cloud of red mist in its wake and shattering against the iron scoreboard scaffolding with a loud clang.

I watch uselessly as my daughter stands upright, curves one arm in front of her belly, and transitions to fourth position en avant, her extended arm and focused gaze now directed toward left field. One of the masked bullpen men, staring wide-eyed at my daughter, fumbles for his pistol, panicked. As he makes contact with the grip, his fingers fold backward to meet the back of his hand. I wince at the two loud pops as his arms are wrenched violently from the sockets, then cover my ears to muffle the nauseating, gravelly crunch as they fold behind his back and tie themselves in a grotesque knot. He faints and crumples to the ground in a heap.

His partner, evidently the wiser one, raises his empty hands to shoulder height, palms out. My daughter points at the man, still holding the en avant position.

“Go get him!” she shrieks. The man spins on his heels and disappears through the bullpen door.

My daughter turns back to the visiting manager and drops her arms to her sides. He’s pale and swaying on his knees, fighting to stay conscious, staring blankly down at the open, hemorrhaged eyes of his star player. The on-deck hitter and his blade-wielding teammate stand behind him, weapons in hand.  

“Are you the boss of them?” my daughter asks, gesturing toward the visitor bench.

“I am,” the manager growls at her.

“Are they going to play right or not?” she says calmly.

“They’ll play how I fucking tell them to play, and you’ll deal with it,” he sneers.

My daughter’s face contorts with rage, and she holds her shaking fists out in front of her. She brings one knee up to her chest and stands quivering, a tiny nuclear flamingo primed to detonate. The shimmer is back in her eye. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to the glitter. That stuff gets everywhere.

“Time OOOOOUUUT!” she belts, stomping her raised sparkly unicorn sneaker down on the dirt with a thunderous crash in time with the second word. The shock wave almost knocks me out of my seat and blasts the baseline chalk straight up into the air, where it crystalizes into shimmering curtains of translucent glitter as high as the outfield lights and casts twin rainbows over the infield as the hazy summer sun beats through. A deep, booming roar that seems to come from everywhere crescendos in harmony with the piercing tea-kettle whistle of my daughter’s spectacularly long shriek, knocking dust and pigeon feathers off the rumbling concourse rafters.

She pauses for breath as the rumble subsides, then places one foot sideways in front of the other and arches her arms over her head in a fifth position en haut. A section of the first baseline glitter curtain follows her lead, realigning itself to form a convex bubble. The manager yelps and tries to stand as a smoldering patch of concentrated sunlight appears on his jersey. The players standing behind him grab his arms and hold him in place. He screams in agony, first from the pain in his shattered arm, then from the flaming hole burning into his chest. From my seat I can smell the putrid stench of scorched fabric fused with melting flesh. The manager howls and writhes futilely in the grip of his much stronger young players. His screams turn to tortured gurgles and then hoarse, voiceless gasps as the smoking void consumes his lungs and heart. His head slumps forward, and the players let him drop face down on the ground. White smoke billows from under him as his body snuffs the flames. The bat boy dutifully jogs out to the plate and, with the Bowie man’s help, drags the manager’s smoldering corpse by the legs toward the dugout, leaving a trail of soot and charred gristle in the tightly clipped bluegrass.

My daughter lowers her arms, and the glitter curtains slowly flutter back into place on the baselines, where they twinkle serenely in the bright sunlight. The bullpen man, his face unmasked, cautiously steps out from the left field door with Espinosa. Espinosa looks around, dazed, then trots toward home. On the way there he pauses to put a hand on the shoulder of the shortstop, who stands and puts his glove back on. The first baseman follows suit. The erroneously walked first base runner skulks along the infield wall toward his dugout, trying to keep out of sight.

Mayfield steps back from the plate as Espinosa arrives, slaps his teammate on the rear, and walks to the bench. The manager pats Mayfield on the back and motions to another player, who jumps up and jogs out to center field. The armed auxiliaries slink out of the stands and disappear into the concourse, dropping their visiting team caps into trash cans along the way.

My daughter closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath, then another. She’s working on calming down, like we practice at home. I stand up and put my fingers through the black safety mesh. My voice is back.

“Big breaths,” I say calmly. “I’m right here.” She opens her eyes and looks toward me, eyes shining. A tear runs down each cheek. She sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve. I motion for her to come back. She runs through the open access gate to our seats, the home team watching her silently, warily, from the dugout to our right. She jumps into my lap and curls up, exhausted. I bend down to pick up the lemonade can and refill the empty cup that she left in the holder next to her seat.

“Hey, you,” she says to the umpire, who’s still standing against the wall, staring blankly. “Say the thing.”

The umpire snaps out of his daze and blinks twice, turning to face the field. He holds up his fists. The scoreboard count changes to no balls, no strikes. He reaches into his hip pouch and tosses a fresh ball to the pitcher, then bends down to brush a bit of glitter off the plate.

“Play ball!” he shouts. The on-deck hitter bangs the grip end of his bat on the ground to knock the donut off and walks to the box. Espinosa crouches behind the plate and pulls down his mask. The pitcher leans forward to read his signal, then stands upright to start his motion.

My daughter takes a sip of her lemonade and rattles the ice around in the cup. “Yummy,” she says. I give her a squeeze, and she grabs my hand.

We sit quietly and watch the game in peace. We have the best seats in the house.