In the early
1980’s, I had the opportunity to play softball with some of my co-workers, if
only for one game however, a game for which they had failed to recruit enough
of their regular players. The game took place at an exclusive ball field where
the opposing team always had the home team advantage: The Kentucky State Penitentiary
in Eddyville, Ky. They were rumored to be undefeated.
We assembled
our group of fresh fish at one of the razor wire entry gates leading to the
ballfield located within the confines of the “Castle on the Cumberland”. We
passed through this gate as it closed up behind us. A second gate would find us
walking down the first base line toward home plate. Freedom was a long way off
from here.
A few
minutes later, a massive steel door along a tall stone wall screeched open and
the inmates began to trickle out and gather in small groups around the field. A
half dozen sunbaked, wild eyed ball slingers took the infield and began to warm
up. Slow pitch softball has nothing to do with base to base hurling. The
inmates were putting on a show, a very high speed show.
Other
inmates talked with us as we waited for the game to start.
“You see dat
infield, boy?” One of them asked. “If yo ball don’t get out dat infield, you out!
Don’t you worry ‘bout fust base. You ain’t gone make it.”
“An all dem
boys is murderers.” He pointed to the infield. “Dat home plate umpire…he a
murderer, too.”
I could see
why some of our regular players were unavailable.
Anyway, win
or lose, playing the game was now the only way out of here.
“Batter up!”
Our first at
bat was uneventful, other than confirming the captive Prophets’ predictions.
“What I tell you, boy?” Laughing as he called the play-by-play from behind the
dugout.
Our fielding
wasn’t much better, giving up several runs before the inning was over.
Tommy, one of our better players, stepped into the batter’s box with all of the confidence of a big hitter, having, on occasion, pointed to an out-of-park location in a prophecy of his own making.
He dispatched the second pitch high over the right field fence, bouncing off the roof of one of the perimeter buildings.
“Double!”
The empire bellowed.
One of the
little known rules of this particular field was that any hit striking the roof
of the building beyond right field was counted as a double.
Tommy was
dismayed but stopped at second base. He later dropped one over the fence to
left field for a home run.
Probably the
smallest, yet best all-around athletes on our team was a fellow nicknamed
“Wiener”, who somehow managed to advance to third and was threatening to steal
home. A fly ball gave him the green light as he dove across the plate, taking
out the legs of the catcher who was none too happy about it. The Umpire stepped
up to discourage any discussion that the catcher might have as Weiner trotted
to the dugout. He was pronounced “out” but I think he was proud just the same.
One of our
guys had worn a pair of loud, plaid “Bermuda” shorts; not a good choice, we
thought, considering where we were. Somebody called him by name but what the
inmates heard was a little bit different.
“Lisa!
Lisa!” They heckled. He must have felt like the day would never end.
But eventually,
the game came to a close, having let the inmates eek out a win of about 20
something to three. They were really good sports about it though and invited us
back anytime, as they really had nothing better to do.
We knew
that.
Slowly the
inmates made their way back up to the big steel door where, when the last man
passed through, the door slammed shut, echoing off the nearby hill. It was an imposing
sound followed by an eerie silence.
We just
couldn’t get through those gates quick enough. We lost the game but having come
away from there, we felt like winners.
