Dizzy McDermott

I am fascinated by human relationships. I wrote this story inspired by my own childhood with great friends and participation in sports (I was awful!) It is a story about friendship and how tragedy impacted that relationship.

• Short story
• Fiction

								
Dizzy McDermott


Dizzy McDermott died sliding into third base on a Friday afternoon. There he was: his hands outstretched in front of him, the dust settling on his Cincinnati Reds cap that he always wore backwards. He was 13 – supposed to turn 14 in less than two weeks. 
	Dizzy McDermott, born Thomas, was the seventh of eight children, followed almost five years later by a disabled sister that he adored, pampered, and protected. He earned his nickname from his absolute devotion to Dizzy Dean, one of the most well-known pitchers of the 1930’s. Unlike his nickname-sake, this Dizzy was shorter than most kids his age, thin as a farm fence post and just as rugged. His head was topped with a forever scruffy head of hair the color of the bright orange crayon in a Crayola box which only made his cobalt eyes shine like his uncle’s newly waxed ’57 white-over-blue chevy. The loose hanging clothes he wore were as scruffy as his hair. And he was fast. Fast like the road runner, he would tell you – his favorite cartoon character.
He was stealing third. He was always trying to steal third, especially against left-handed pitchers. Now, everyone knows the reason that it’s harder for a left-handed pitcher to throw out a runner stealing third. First of all, his back is to the third base side and secondly, he must twist his head almost halfway around looking over his right shoulder to see what the runner on second was doing. Against right-handed pitchers Dizzy was stealing at around 6 or 7 out of every 10 attempts. Against lefties it was easily 9 out of 10. Dizzy was fast. Super-fast. High school track coaches would attend his little league games (there were always two or three) who drooled at the prospect of having him at their school. Every time he came to bat their eyes would widen with anticipation. He rarely disappointed. 
But this was no little league game. This was neighborhood pick-up hard ball down at the fields behind the Catholic school. The fields weren’t well-kept which according to the neighborhood boys, just made it more interesting with all the bumps and small holes in the infield and the bare spots in the outfield. 
The funny thing about Dizzy was that running fast was about all he could do. Oh, he could hit it well enough to get on first base which was exactly what he wanted to do and what the opposing basemen, pitcher, and catcher hated. On a good day, he could crack one right up the middle just far enough so he could show off his jet feet by making a stand-up triple or sometimes a homer out of what should have been a double at the very most. It just depended on if he was in a show-off mood or not. He wasn’t stuck up – he just liked to run and enjoyed showing it off. But he was a terrible defensive player. His coaches tried him at every position – he was terrible at all of them. Some would tell you that for every run he scored because of his speed, two runs scored for the other team because of his errors. So, like most bad players, he ended up in right field. That, however, wasn’t all bad because he was so fast, he got to the balls that slipped around or through him so fast that he saved a few runs. His feet often made up for his aim, but he was known to send wild off-target throws. That’s why no high school baseball coaches came to see him play. If they did, they were gone by the third inning.
          Dizzy McDermott loved running and running fast. It was not uncommon to see Dizzy just out running around the neighborhood to the store, to the NCH bakery (he loved donuts), to the ball fields or just not going anywhere in particular. Just running to be running. The true irony was that at just about anything else he was just plain slow. He didn’t start talking until he was almost three and about the same for walking. But once he did figure out walking, he moved up to running pretty quickly and never slowed down. He was slow at school as well: slow learning to write, slow at math, slow at spelling. And reading? When it was his turn to read the other kids just laid their heads down on their desks for a nap. He even talked slowly. But boy he could run! 
          So, on this early Friday afternoon, Dizzy, after already stealing second, decided, to no one’s surprise, to steal third. Dizzy liked to steal bases. Especially third because it was hardest except, of course, for stealing home which he could also do but he didn’t like interrupting his teammate who was up to bat – unless it was someone who was not so good. He especially liked stealing third against Arthur “Choo Choo” Leonard who was catching that day. It’s important to note that Choo Choo and Dizzy were always in an undeclared war: Dizzy successfully stealing third or Choo Choo throwing him out.  Adding to the competition? Choo Choo and Dizzy were best friends. On any given day if you saw one, you saw the other – unless Dizzy was out running fast to or from somewhere or when Choo Choo, in full catcher’s regalia, was in his back yard throwing baseballs at the hole in a tire that his dad had hung from a tree branch. They went to school together, sat at desks next to each other, ate lunch together, served mass together, went to the movies together, slept over at each other’s houses, or sat on the front porch together – you name it, they did it – together. Sometimes Choo Choo would have to remind Dizzy to slow down, or Dizzy would have to tell his friend “Hurry up!” But when they walked out on the pick-up-game field that all changed. They were always on opposing teams only because when the sides were picked, if they weren’t the ones doing the choosing – which automatically meant they were on different teams – then whoever was doing it picked Choo Choo and Dizzy first and second. They were both intense competitors and once out on the field, all friendship bets were off.
	Choo Choo was another story altogether. He was at least a foot taller than Dizzy, sleek and muscular like a Kentucky Derby winner. His buzz-cut hair, if grown out, would be dark black, very curly – ringlets, really. He had dark brown eyes to match. His face was always locked in a serious look unlike Dizzy who was always smiling, especially when running. Choo Choo’s serious look gave notice of his serious approach to life. Straightforward. Focused. Intense. He was serious. He could have practiced his catcher’s throws in his jeans and t-shirt but, instead he insisted on wearing the full catcher’s gear. School for Choo Choo was an exercise in exceptional concentration. He loved to learn. He especially loved subjects where what he learned he could use immediately: learn to read – he read at least three books a week; learn math – he started at eight years of age keeping his own averages of his favorite baseball players, especially catchers; spelling – he kept a list of new and difficult words while he read and practiced spelling them. Anything that demanded repetition or fortitude and his full attention he stuck with it. But creative or interpretive skills like art or history? Not so much. So, people, especially his mom and dad, were puzzled about his friendship with Dizzy. Dizzy was carefree, even a bit dippy at times. What could Choo Choo see in him? Ask him and he might tell you that those qualities were what he wished he could be. Call it jealousy or admiration but Choo Choo loved what Dizzy brought out in him. 

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