The Bowling League Softball Team

Written by John Abram 

The Bowling League Softball Team

1

I’d been away from my family and friends for two years on a religious studies scholarship in Rome before I would ever see them again, traveling there one summer to my parents’ new house in rural northern West Virginia over the wide Atlantic that had driven a dividing wedge in all I’d known. My parents had been living in a house there in the woods down an old gravel road, though they had raised me in northern Virginia. That summer I would not only get to visit them in the mountains, I would get to go to my old stomping grounds as well, driving down to Virginia from West Virginia to see my old friends and get the proper dose of America I’d been needing.

Specifically, I would go see Jason—a tall, big-shouldered, big-chested guy of Hungarian blood, an ex-high school quarterback with a Mustang and a truck, and one of my best childhood friends. He was in a bowling league year-round (he has thrice bowled a 300), and some of his league-mates had created a softball team for a Capitol Area league. Jason was on the team, and as I was in town, he had asked me if I wanted to come, hang out and watch a game. The next games were on Saturday, he had said, so I headed down Friday at noon, down off the cool mountains into the rolling hazy hills.

Woodbridge, Virginia—Jason’s hometown, is a fine American town. We went to shoot pool there that night, to drink beer and catch up. We went with Tay from across the street and Jason’s younger brother Joey. Tay made his living off the books, while Joey had gotten a DUI once at a fast food drive-through. The pool hall was busy, the waitstaff were friendly, the vibe there welcomed me home. We laughed, shot the shit, ordered more beer and tried to impress each other by foxily sinking the shiny balls into the deep pockets of the smooth flat table.

2

I had been off the map, off in my world of books and old churches and ruins, but I had secretly longed for home. I had missed the seasons, the Thanksgiving turkey, the sound of kids playing and the smell of cut grass in wide green yards. I had a position in the Vatican researching the Old Testament, had walked in gold-lined hallways and handled priceless manuscripts, but the sound of yellow school buses and the grunts and smashing sounds of shoulder pads and helmets after the hike would haunt me more and more.

After the pool hall we would go to Jason’s house to crash, drink a couple more beers, heat up a pizza and reminisce on the past. Jason was living in his grandma’s house, who was off in the hospital, albeit briefly. He had made the basement his living space, which had a door to the backyard that led down to a creek. Racoons and opossums were up in the trees, and you could see their eyes reflecting in the porch lights. Joey lit up a blunt, and we passed it around on the back porch at midnight. When in Woodbridge…

3

We headed out to the softball fields at seven o’clock the next morning, piling into Jason’s Mustang. We stopped at McDonalds and got some chow, and listening to rap at full volume, sped up 95. I was sitting in the back (if you can call it that), where my head was smashed up against the roof. We had the windows down and there were no cops or traffic in sight. Joey had brought both of us some ecstasy pills, which we downed with our drinks; We were going for moral support and to have a good time; the athlete for the day was completely sober. 

We parked in the shade and got out and played catch. The smell and feel of the leather glove and the thwack of the ball landing snug in my palm was intensified by the drug. Soon, pickup trucks, Acuras and SUVs would fill the parking lot. There were eight or ten fields in the complex, around which Joey and I wandered, lost in our thoughts and beginning to roll. 

The team the bowlers would play against first was a prissy’d up squad of asshole lawyers and cops, who strutted out to the field. Their uniforms were clean and black, and they were buff and meant business. The first up to bat for the bowlers would be their pitcher—a stocky, round, stout black guy with a big pickup truck and probably the best athlete on the team. He hit a line drive into centre and barreled his way to second base. Two more guys hit pop-flies, which were caught by the agile outfielders. When Jason got up to bat, he hit a grounder into left, the ball missing the shortstop’s glove by inches. Now there were two runners on base, but the great subsequent defense shut them down, keeping the bowlers scoreless. And when the lawmen went up to bat that inning, they showed why they were number one in the league, scoring three points against our frustrated team. I could tell it was gonna be a long day.

There are no umpires in Italy, no dusty home plates. Yes, there is a culture, and that culture is renown, with their Roman coliseums and their espressos, scooters and passion for living, but it is not and was not my culture. I felt like an outsider there among them; I couldn’t relate.

But now, back home at the game, I was in my element. I ragged on their pitcher and cheered our boys on, who were charging through the line-up and swinging for the fence that shaped the concave end of the field. I wanted to take the field myself, wanted to hit one out to left, gallop cockily around the bases. I told a bowler to charge the mound! I blurted “Get a fucking grip ump!” when one of our boys slid home and was called out.

Joey and I cheered them on as they lost their first game wholeheartedly. I heard the crack of a beer can and the slam of the lid of an ice-cold cooler; We became friends with the bowlers’ family and friends there in the aluminium mini-bleachers, which were mounted on white concrete slabs. The drug got me talking and sharing my story freely. It felt good to hear the people say that it had to have been hard for me in Italy.

The bowlers would lose every game that day, but they never gave up the fight. Between games, I sat with them under the shade of the tall swinging oaks and on the hill above the creek. I met real, honest, American men—guys like I had used to be.

4

Years later, Jason would haul ass to Austin. His brother Joey would die in a crash on 95—a head-on collision. I had resumed work in Europe and threw myself completely back into the texts. I never did see those guys again, though I would still write to Jason. He had thrown in the towel in Texas and was back in his basement.

Driving back from my trip the next day, I was again rolling on E. The wheel felt tight in my hands and I was happy to be cruising on the open road uphill into the rocks and trees under a sunny sky of blue. What I felt for America was love for my kind; I had never felt so proud to be from here, and I spat at Vatican City. And how the Europeans mock us, I shook my head, how they laugh at our society. But look at the richness! Hear the sound of the bat! What makes you feel like you are better than us?

I had been happy living in Virginia, although I’d never realized it. There was no reason, I realized now, for me to ship off to Rome and delve into those texts. Something had spurred me on, baiting that dream in front of me. I suppose you never do miss something until it’s gone.

5

I stayed in Rome for 10 more years after that trip. I nearly lost what little remained of me there, choosing to slave myself over the texts. I would sadden when memories from back home came to me, like the rapids on the river at the trout hole, the smell of cleaning my old shotgun, or the sizzling sound of a steak on the grill. I had brutally felt the damage of the daunting distance between myself and my people, completely cut off from my culture. My time away from my country would change me at my core. And I never would submit to any Italian customs in Rome. It’s heartbreaking when one can’t identify with the culture he finds himself in, but it’s even worse when he loses the culture he did have to time.

And I prayed to God in Italy, that my pain would still serve me, that I could still grow, but it only made for a longer-lasting and deeper hurt. And now, writing this in my library in Oakland, where I serve as the acting parishioner and live alone, far away from my family back East, I’m learning to let go of the rest of my dreams, and devoting myself to the texts.