The Third Personality: A Novel (2)

PLANTATION, Florida - Tommy Mendelson grabbed a 34-inch bat - pretty hefty for Little League - and stepped up to the plate.

Hey, batter-batter, hey batter …

"It's Porky again - back up there in left … Deeper."

As the team in the field quickly adjusted its defense, Tommy - "Porky;" he really hated being called that - took a few practice swings and casually studied the setup on the left side of the field, even though he needn't have. Tommy knew by now how all of the teams defensed him. Even with kids this young, it didn't take an Einstein to figure out that when facing a right-handed dead pull hitter with Tommy's power, you shifted everybody over toward the third base- and left field-side of the diamond, and then sent your left and center fielders … real deep.

What always rankled Tommy was that so many of the fields they played games on had no outfield fences - and here was yet another. The problem was that as stout as he was, Tommy just couldn't run; and no matter how far he jacked one of his towering fly balls over an outfielder's head (a challenge he welcomed, as opponents always seemed to underestimate his power), he was lucky to work a triple out of it, what with his lumbering, labored base running.

Hit one to downtown Fort Lauderdale? A triple - maybe. Jack one into Pompano? Okay, a sure triple - but no home run. They'd always retrieve the ball after one of his hearty blasts, and get it back to the infield before Tommy could round third.

In most divisions, the kid who led the league in triples was also among its fastest runners usually - if he could hit at all.

But not in this league. That leader was Tommy.

Porky. The nickname had just caught on. He'd grown weary of others (particularly some of the other teams' coaches) making such a big deal about his weight - it wasn't like he was the only obese kid in Broward County or anything - but he had gradually gotten used to it; it was all just words. Besides, he figured it was that added bulk that allowed him to pummel mediocre Little League fastballs into oblivion as he so often did.

Yet, if they'd just let him play with fences sometimes, he wouldn't have to get all sweaty and out-of-breath running the bases. He could simply break into one of those home run trots, like Mickey Mantle or Rocky Colavito, say, and bring everyone on the bases (including himself, for a change) home.

But maybe they saw Tommy Mendelson coming. Not only weren't there many fences for this kid to fantasize over, but the league kept coming up with these really dumb ground rules - like, hit one into the Atlantic? Oh, tough luck, Tommy: Ground rule double.

Hey-batter, hey-batter …

The pitcher squinted in for a signal, and Tommy settled in at the plate. Tommy'd developed such confidence as a hitter that he'd cultivated a number of I'm going to knock your socks off mannerisms - just like the home run hitters showed off on TV.

First, he'd squat to rub some dirt in his hands as he approached the plate from the on-deck circle. Then, as he stepped into the batters' box, he held the bat out to see that the label was "up." Then, he tugged at his pants; thrust the barrel of the bat out over the plate; brought his left foot in close to his right (which was now supporting most of his weight) before finally rounding off the whole Honeymooners' "Ed Norton routine" (that's what his father liked to call it) by opening his fingers a few times before tightening them around the nub of the bat. Then - satisfied that a spurt of energy was very probably in the process of working its way up through the arches of both of his feet, through his arms, and into his waving bat (didn't all power hitters feel that surge? It was … there!) - Tommy was ready.

"Time!" It was a familiar voice from over Tommy's shoulder. He turned around to see his friend Charley, who'd decided to walk up from the on-deck circle (he batted next) to chat with Tommy.

"You've got ten seconds, kid - if that," the umpire warned Charley. Charley nodded at the ump grimly, then smiled at Tommy.

"Are you nuts? Tommy whispered back. "I'm trying to hit."

"Mom says you can come over tonight for some Roald Dahl and Rod Serling," Charley explained. "She's fixing up some 'zas."

Charley spoke in kid code. �Zas was short for pizzas, while Roald Dahl ("Way Out") and Red Serling ("The Twilight Zone") meant it was Monday, a good TV night. Charley's mom made superlative �zas.

"Sounds great, I'll be over," Tommy nodded. "Now go away."

"Batter up!" ordered the ump. He was some kid's father.

"Belt one from here to Sunday, Tommy!" his coach yelled.

Tommy'd faced this kid pitching to him now a couple of times before. Pretty woeful: Mediocre speed. No curve. Wild, too.

"Ball one!" grunted the ump after the first pitch, which had bounced in front of the plate - and slipped past the catcher to the backstop. A teammate of Tommy's on first advanced to second.

Tommy hated wild pitchers, because he was obliged to draw a base-on-balls when he could, for the team. But for Tommy, a walk was a wasted at-bat forcing him to do what he liked least - run.

The pitcher then managed to aim his next delivery right down the middle of the plate, with absolutely nothing on it. The ball quickly shot off of Tommy's bat, and gradually cleared the left fielder by 15 feet - even though the left fielder was already positioned in West Palm Beach to begin with.

Tommy knew he'd really clobbered that pitch, but-good, and he was already mounting a full head of steam around first base by the time the left fielder, whose back was still to the plate, got anywhere near the ball.

But as Tommy rounded second ("Darn it," he whined to himself as he already saw a strong throw coming in from left), he decided nothing was going to keep him from turning that cremated-monster-blast into a home run..; not this time. Ignoring signals from his third base coach to stop (at least he wasn't getting a palms-down signal to slide into the bag!), Tommy, huffing and puffing, turned it all up a twentieth of a notch - and headed for home.

But before he was even a third of the way down the line, the throw from the relay man arrived on one bounce, picture perfect, to the waiting catcher (who caught the ball this time), blocking the base line smack in front of the plate.

Huff, puff, huff, puff - there was nothing for Tommy to do, really, if he still wanted his "home run" (although no matter what happened now, he realized his hit would probably be scored as a triple, whether he was safe or out) … No matter. He was committed - to a collision with a kid only two-thirds his mass.

It was almost laughable. For six of Tommy's now-thundering steps, the catcher was standing in front of the plate with the ball clutched - for dear life - in the webbing of his mitt.

"Oh, please, God," the catcher groaned in a whisper, as he waited for Porky. He then closed his eyes - and held out his glove.

Every player on both teams, the coaches, and all of the parents in the stands had by now climbed to their feet. They psychically braced themselves - and one another - while awaiting Tommy's impending crunch with the trembling, soon-to-possibly-be-deceased catcher.

One step away now, amid a death silence on and around the field - Tommy Mendelson lowered his left shoulder and barreled directly into the catcher, knocking the poor kid backwards across the plate and halfway to the screen on his back. But somehow - he held onto the ball..! His teammates then abruptly dashed onto the field in a fit of spontaneous joy and showed him with hugs and pats and similar Little League-oriented congratulations.

Tommy, in the meantime, had never even made it to home plate. Face down in the dirt, he began to hear some sounds emanating out of the puckered mouths of a number of adults in the stands.

They were booing.

Tommy's own teammates sat silently. None of them budged.

Not even Charley, who stood blank-faced near home plate.

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