The Bunt I feel the night envelope me like a shroud, even though my immediate world is bathed in artificial light. I am thinking of it now and have thought of it many times, as I kneel in the on deck circle. My father shows it to me for the first time when I am nine. His thick powerful arms hold the bat out parallel to the floor. His thick stubby fingers hold the bat lightly, delicately. It is not so much a part of contested athletics as it is a sleight of hand. It was not envisioned by the creator of the game at all. It is a deft maneuver of the hands and feet, more akin to catching a ball than hitting it. He shows it to me then because I am about to play in a league where they will allow it for the first time. He also knows that, like the rest of the men in the long history of our Hungarian family, I will probably remain diminutive and that athletics in this country seem to belong to a race of giants. And so at the age of 9, I receive my first tool with which to do battle with giants.
Like most of the things my father shows me, I master it quickly and I love it. The first few times I use it, I catch the other team so completely by surprise there isn’t even a throw to first. The looks on their faces and the smile on my father’s send a warm wave through me. My father is right, I never grow taller than 5 feet 6 but my feet are swift and the bunt becomes my most lethal weapon. No matter how good or overpowering a pitcher may be, no matter how overmatched I find myself, I can always with the deft and ingenious maneuver get myself on base and keep myself in the land of the giants. It comes to an absolute head when I am 17 years old and my team is playing in a fast pitch softball tournament. By then my reputation has preceded me and third baseman play me 10 to 15 feet in front of the base. It is a one loss elimination tournament and we are in the last inning.
I am leading off and we are down three runs. We must have the leadoff man on. I am 0 for 2 and the first and third basemen seem so close that they could reach out and shake my hand. I await a low strike and when I get it on a 1 and 1 count, I deftly lay the bay out in a perfect position parallel to the ground, my elbows bent, my wrists relaxed as I sprint quickly out of the box and catch the ball with my bat laying the ball 10 feet up the third base line with just a touch of backspin so it dies there and speed to first on 17 year old legs that do not know the meaning of pain or fatigue. The third baseman picks it up, throws to first but I am already two steps past the base. We do not win the game but my reputation in my neighborhood as the best bunter ever is secured for the ages.
I am thinking of it now, as my friend Rick sends a long towering arc of a fly ball into the dark to deep right center field. It is beyond the outfielders and Rich is chugging around the bases. He makes it to third before the ball is relayed in. I am thinking of it now because it would be perfect. It would be perfect because at 39, playing the game has slowly become an exercise in mediocrity and so far tonight I have managed to pop up twice and ground weakly back to the pitcher, a tall, think mustachioed man who has made me feel like a 9 year old again. It would be perfect because there are two out and we are one run down late in the game and absolutely no one would be looking for it.
Of course if I am out bunting I give up all chance of driving in the run. I live on 39 year old legs that know pain and fatigue all too well.
I foul off two pitches and take one for a ball. I drive the next pitch foul down the first base line and for a moment in my mind I see my father at the wire fence where he always used to be. But I know that cannot be, he passed some 18 years ago.
I step out of the box, spit on my hands and reach for some dirt. Rick and I have played on the same team for many years. As I am bent over rubbing the dirt in my hands, I look up towards third base and right into his eyes. It is essential he get a good jump off third so he is not thrown out at the plate.
I settle in the box. Both the first and third baseman are back. Nobody bunts with two strikes and two out and that is just the edge my 39 year old legs need.
The pitch comes in, it is low and inside and I am out of the box and the ball is on the floor and I am racing to first with a prayer on my lips that it stays fair and I hear my team let out with a roar. There is no throw.
I feel my father again. His was the first and therefore most painful loss but there have been many, as there are in all lives. But as I cross the base, my legs feel like they are 17 again and I now that no matter what comes of my life, no matter how I age and lose all the speed, it will be okay. I have been in the land of giants, and with the deft motion and the quick feet, I have been their equal.
I have run a good ten feet past the base but I do not wish to stop running because maybe out there in the dark somewhere my father leans against a wire fence and if I run swiftly enough, into the dark, after a perfect bunt, I will find him there.
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