Writers as Kids: OMFG, Outfield Again

Story by Della Watson

Pictured in a drawing based on a photo on his mother's refrigerator: Matthew Savoca

when the shortstop told us that the FBI kept a file on him and that probably we all had FBI files now, just for knowing him, i wanted to believe it, i really did. i wanted to rearrange my habits around the matrix of being watched. to speak in code, to avoid windows. this is exactly the kind of interaction that drove us all to smoke. everyone, even the coach, who had clearly been the victim of some terrible fire. “you should see his wife though, she’s beautiful.” as if beauty could be earned. and we were trying, showing up at all the right parties, thinking we were meant to feel this way, to hold this daiquiri. meanwhile everyone had a little scar behind the ear or an almost imperceptible limp because one leg was slightly shorter than the other. all of us wearing our character like clothes that had been balled up on the floor for too long. what could you expect from a drunken child in an oldsmobile? i wanted to eat my wheaties and grow a major league arm. i wanted to escape this outfield existence. this waiting and waiting for the ball that finally lands square in the mitt. we nearly went blind staring into that gumball sun. each inning rubberbanding the rest of our ordinary lives.

Comments

[matthewsavoca]

this almost made me cry

[Jamie GP]

Loving a lot of these... but this might be my favorite so far. Then again, who needs a favorite?

[megan martin]

whoa, so good!