cold takes

untimely baseball shortform

Category: Fiction

The Ice Cream Man


The familiar mechanical jingle filled the park, and soon children were running, some with money and some with hope, to its source: the ice cream truck. They crowded each other, stared at faded photographs of colorful popsicles and chocolate-dipped cones, envisioned them on their tongues.

“This truck is empty,” the ice cream man told the children. He was plain, softspoken, not unkind. “There has never been any ice cream.”

The children snarled, waiting for the lie to surface.

“This is important,” the man said, growing a little flustered. “There cannot be ice cream. If there were, you would eat it and forget.” Seeing the faces of the children, he stepped out of the truck, and walked toward the back, the children following him like hungry dogs sweating under the sun. “Here,” he said, and flung open the doors. The children whimpered and cursed.

“You must learn to make your own ice cream,” he told them, though they were no longer listening. “It would taste better than mine. But,” he added, though the children were already milling, wandering, teasing each other for the unhappiness, “There is more than that. You must learn to stop making ice cream, and drive empty trucks. You must teach other children, teach them not to make ice cream.”

Not one child paid attention, but the man did not care. The word must was not an imperative, but a fact: it would happen, would always happen. He would leave the empty truck for his own son when he died, and someday the boy would know what to do, be driven to share his own emptiness. It was important. It had to be, because it was true.


Yasiel Puig Does Not Flip a Bat


The game is tied in the eighth. Casilla hangs a slider and moments later, a baseball lands in the seventh row of the bleachers. Twenty-six people claw at each other as the ball glances off a glove, strikes a seat, bounces back into the air. The rest face Yasiel Puig.

Puig lays his bat gently on the ground. He does not smile. “I wish that I could speak to each of you,” he says to no one, as he begins his ritual. “I wish I could make you understand the joy that is in my heart. It is the same as yours, I think, in its essence. But you are there, and I am here. I cannot speak to you. Instead I must run these bases, even though the act is already done, even though all the rest is symbolism. I must do this because it is expected, because we dare not imagine an alternative.”

He rounds third, his pace neither slow nor quick. “The ritual is not so bad,” he admits, mechanically receiving the high five of his third base coach. “I do enjoy it. But it is not me. The ball is me, the moment I hit it. But even that is yours, now.”

As his teammates congratulate him with their own high fives, he grins. Even though he knows that this, too, is an imperfect reflection of his soul, he cannot restrain it. Someday, he thinks, as he finds a spot on the bench and sips some water, I will remain Yasiel Puig even after I hit the ball. Someday I will not run the bases. Someday I will hit the ball, and walk out to the wall and climb it, and pick it up.