Chapter 12: Drained

 


Catcher and team leader Matt Vischetti



     "Courtesy of Doc Vischetti," explains Frank Sylvester depositing two pitchers on our round wooden table. "Bud if your of age, Coke if your not."

"I've got dad's credit card," Matt whispers as he slips his hand over to the dapper proprietor of the South Brook Inn. "And keep those pitchers coming, Frankie!"

"Damn right," bellows Tom Moriau, one of the eighteen-year-olds, as he stands and starts pouring the golden lager into each of our stange glasses. "Here's to a great season!"



     It was indeed a very good season with the small town team ending up ranked eighth in the state despite the finals loss. Three players, Matt, Sean Doremus, and myself, made all-state first team for Group 1 schools. The team batting average was over .300 led by Matt's astounding .450, which is almost a hit for every two at bats. But after playing extraordinary baseball on those grassy fields of central Jersey, our championship run felt more magical than just great.

     After dire pre-season predictions and an opening day loss, the unexpected arrival of new retiree Norm Matthews with an extra-large pack of Big Red chewing gum and an extra-loud cheering voice seemed to set off a first long winning streak. A surprisingly fun and efficient practice without a coach initiated another long string of victories and left us ranked third in the state. Then three playoff wins against top teams presented those of us who'd lost in the 1971 Little League state final with a second chance to win it all. Then our luck ran out.



     "That was a close game, guys," the bar owner and former Bound Brook baseball player proclaims as he plops down another pitcher of Bud and wipes his hands on a bar towel tucked into his wide leather belt.

"We were fucking robbed!" Geiss spouts over the Friday night din now rising as hourly workers crowd around the bar.

"Maybe so," Seps declares in his calm way, "but close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

"Hey, bocce too!" I throw out, sloshing my tiny glass onto the already soaked wooden table top.

"Here's to bocce-galup!" Rob Corsini chortles stepping over from the bar and tipping back his stange as we all follow suit in one last toast to a season well played.






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