The Baseball Bat Sarah Inouye

Sarah Inouye

From the very beginning Helen had made it clear to me how much she hated baseball. It was probably why our friendship started in the first place. I had an affinity for passionate people and she had an affinity for being a passionate person. She was either loved or hated. There was nothing moderate about her existence. To me it seemed easier to love her, not only because I knew she was unbreakable, callus and grittier than me but because that grit in her fight also translated to the grit in her love. Our friendship was enduring, dedicated. She cared about every single thing I said as long as I cared about what she said in return. She was stubborn in her own beliefs but was receptive to me. The ferocity of her love fostered the ferocity of mine. I adored the weakest parts of her, the tenderness, as much as I adored her protective strength. All who Helen loved, loved to be loved by her.

Sometimes she would offhandedly say that she was having a good day and I would tease her by bringing up baseball. We had a fiery back and forth and I liked to egg her on. “It’s a piece of shit sport,” she would say, “it requires no physical exercise. It’s boring to watch. It’s pathetic. The worship of that idiotic goddamn American pastime just irks me,” and so on.

Then she met her first boyfriend.

A baseball player.

His name was Jacob. It seemed like he treated Helen well, though she didn’t give me much insight into their relationship. He was a spectacularly average kid with creepy snake fingers, that seemed to have minds of their own, and a bizarre fascination with the thing that Helen found the most pathetic. I didn’t understand anything about their relationship but it went on throughout the summer until late in August. I supposed, like anyone in Helen’s life, he must have earned her trust and affections. I knew she would have never been loose handed with her love, especially when it came to a baseball player.

Helen and I didn’t spend much time together that summer. I was busy and she was busy, life sweeping us up into its arms, throwing us through the glimmer and bustle of adolescence. She

would shoot me the occasional text and we would go see a movie or go on a hike. Once or twice we went to the local museum and looked at modern art, which Helen seemed to think was just as pathetic as baseball, but even so she followed me to the art anyway and would stand pretending to speculate pieces she found no beauty in. When I asked her what she thought she would give me an honest and non-sarcastic answer and it was impossible not to love her for caring about me so deeply. For caring about the things that I cared about. She went to Jacob’s baseball games too, trying her very hardest not to turn away from the game to occupy herself with something she deemed more interesting. Good relationships were one of the few things that weren’t beneath Helen. She expected loyalty and if you gave it to her, she’d give it unflinchingly in return. Everything about her was firm and everything about her cared, you couldn’t help wanting to be in her life despite her vulgarity and stubborn nature.

I wasn’t actually there when it happened but it did make news in our little town and in several towns over. It was late August. Jacob and his friends were messing around on one of the recreational baseball fields in the town. When I imagined the incident, the day was cooling off in the way that only hot summers can do, where the air is still warm but twilight has arrived. I picture the sky, all pink and luminous above the baseball players. I can see the dust collecting on the bottoms of their pants and more than anything I can feel the zeal. The catharsis. The evening belongs to us. The summer belongs to us. Everything is ours. I know the stupidity that follows zeal. The thoughts that follow it, the darker ones: Nothing matters because everything is in our palms. We could hurt someone. We could really hurt someone. I’m sure the whole thing was incredibly beautiful.

I’m told there was a bird’s nest in one of the trees off to the right side of the field. Doves are an odd species of bird that keep nesting well into fall, a symbol of love.

I wonder if they knew that.

I wonder if they knew that doves are a symbol of love.

I know Helen knew.

My first thought when they told me that Helen had attacked Jacob was that Helen finally snapped and her hatred for baseball took over. It was a stupid and cynical thought that came out of mild but not complete disbelief. I’m sure it would have made Helen laugh. Of course that wasn’t what happened. The little nest of eggs that had been waiting patiently in one of the trees at the

baseball field was taken down from its perch by one of the boys and brought to the ground. Four chicks. Jacob, in all of his jeering laughter, brought down his baseball bat on the nest anyway.

Helen saw.

Helen saw everything.

I imagine her in all of her strength running over to them and seeing what her boyfriend had done. The boyfriend that she trusted and maybe possibly could have loved. They say she ripped the baseball bat out of his hands and beat the shit out of him. I imagine her thinking of all the times she had watched him slam balls across the field, all the times she had waited around for him at his games when she could have been doing homework. I imagine her regretting having dug her nails into him so tightly. I imagine her trust falling out of her pockets. I imagine the convulsion of love becoming hatred.

One of Jacob’s friends said that she had been crying when she hit him, like those dead little baby birds were god or her own children. Like those little birds were the only babies in the world. He said they were eventually able to pull her off of Jacob and push her down onto the grass where she howled, traumatized by what she had done. Traumatized by the death of the baby doves.

Someone called an ambulance and then the police.

Two bodies were removed from the baseball field.

One alive and screaming.

The other was also alive, blind with pain and silent.

Weeks passed. Interlocking friend groups asked questions, started rumors, begged for answers. Some of Helen’s friends and allies left her side, others waited to hear what she had to say. The high school buzzed and prespired and lacked dignity, filled itself with indulgence. Interviews were conducted with everyone who had been involved. Articles followed quickly after. Jacob took his time to heal in the hospital, though he refused to interview saying that he was in too much pain, though I doubt that was what it was at all.

Once in the quiet aftermath of a day in October I walked by the baseball fields and saw that someone had nailed up a wooden birdhouse on the branch where a dove’s nest had been.