Susan E. Isaacs had sore fingertips. She flexed and stretched her hands, tired after another grueling practice, as she sat in the middle of the hall. John had already taken her music bag and violin-case downstairs, leaving her a few precious minutes alone in the echoing space. She leaned her head back, traced the ceiling patterns with her eyes, and hummed a few bars from Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. The Andante was giving her trouble – not technically, that was no problem, but emotively. John’s analysis was: “Susan E, you play like there are icicles stabbing your guts.” But then John was never good at offering constructive feedback. She sighed and stood.
When she opened the main door, the first thing she noticed was the noise. It was often noisy up here, on the top level of the complex. She could never figure out why the concert hall was so high up. It was terribly hard to get to with instruments and music in tow, which was why she had told Father she enjoyed having John at her practices. This was a lie, of course, as he often tapped random rhythms on the seat-backs, interrupting her concentration, but he was useful as a packhorse. As she began down the corridor towards the main staircase, the noise rose to a pitch – a combination of shouts, calls, clapping, and an odd sharp cracking sound followed by metal rattling. At the next opening, she looked through, curious.
Just as her head cleared the edge, a white ball flew at her. She drew back, frightened, but it stopped several yards before it reached her, smashing against a rattling chain fence, and dropped down… And there was a man down there, on a stretch of grass, hands outstretched to catch the ball. The screams grew, and she felt a wave of excitement rush through her when she saw the crowds, on their feet, watching the man with the funny brown glove reach for the ball. He caught it, spun around, and threw it, fast, towards a man standing in a dirt square, and there were other men running, men on the field just watching, and people sitting, standing, jumping, down on rows of risers.
Susan E. Isaacs stepped through the door.
Susan E. Isaacs climbed down a few rows, and sat.
Susan E. Isaacs leaned against the wooden slats, and stared.
She had never experienced anything like this. She had heard applause, a few whistles, but never these yells, this stomping. The energy practically radiated from the men down on the field, exploded from the people on the risers. And the people! Concert audiences were homogenous, all dressed in dark, conservative clothes, a few jewels discreetly watching her play. They were mostly her parents’ age, or older. But these people – they were all kinds. They wore bright colors, t-shirts, hats. They had wild hair, dyed hair, no hair. They were old, very young, and everything in between. They laughed, they talked, they switched seats. They were having fun.
She scooted down a couple rows, to see better. A voice boomed over loudspeakers, speaking quickly and excitedly. She only caught a few words: “ …one more out… close game… can the {team name} do it?...” Then a man stepped to one corner of the square. He swung a big metal stick a few times, then crouched slightly, stick over his shoulder, and looked at the man in the center. This man suddenly wound into a whirl of motion, and before Susan could tell what was happening, the other man swung his stick and a CRACK split the air. The crowd jumped up and screamed. The ball smashed against the chain fence, a man in the field caught it, and everyone started yelling and cheering. All the men on the field ran to the man who had caught the ball, and mobbed him, and those on the risers left their seats and stormed the field. The announcer came back on, but Susan Isaacs couldn’t hear him over the crowd.
Nor did she care that she couldn’t hear him. Her whole self was focused on the swirling people down on the field, drinking in their excitement. Without knowing what she was doing, she started creeping down, one riser at a time, stand, step down, pause, stare, step down, pause, step down, pause… She trailed one hand along the wooden rails as she moved, feeling her way with her feet, looking between the slats so she could drink in the scene.
Once she reached the bottom level, she hung back, staying half-hidden by the wooden frame bordering the risers. The people had clustered, and their groups were scattered across the field like galaxies. Voices laughed, called, sang. Susan Isaacs was not accustomed to the joy, the hilarious, contagious joy streaming from those people. She was not accustomed to gleeful children running wherever they pleased. She was not accustomed to any of it, so she stood and watched, fascinated yet timid.
Then a bird caught her eye. It flew down from the top balcony, over the fields, and her gaze followed its extravagant flight, swooping, circling, floating, flashing on blue wings through the air. It flew right in front of her, and drew her feet after it. The bird landed on a bench in the front row, a yard or two away from an old man watching the celebration. Susan Isaacs followed the bird, which tilted its head at her. She carefully slid onto the bench, trying to get as close as she could without frightening it away. It hopped a little, resettled its wings, and resumed staring at her. If the old man noticed the odd silent conversation, he gave no indication, except a small twitch widening his already smiling mouth.
Then the bird looked up, chirruped, and fluttered up and up and up until it was lost to Susan’s following eyes. Mendelssohn soared through her mind as it disappeared, and she smiled.
Someone spoke. Startled, she turned, the smile still on her face, to see a young man standing nearby.
‘Hello,’ he said.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to answer. Random people never said hello to her. Especially not young men standing easily in jeans and t-shirts. He wore a necklace of shell beads, and his hair was long, she noticed. No, definitely not the kind of person she was used to seeing, much less speaking to.
He half-smiled, aware of her discomfort, and sat on the bench beyond hers. ‘Hello.’ He paused. ‘Did you enjoy the game?’
Unbidden, her smile jumped out again. She didn’t know how to talk to him, but she had enjoyed the game. ‘Yes.’ Politeness called for some kind of answer. ‘What is it?’
He didn’t laugh, although he did grin. ‘You’ve never seen it before? Man, you’ve been missing out. Baseball’s only the best game there is. We don’t have a real field – the fences make it hard to get any homers – but it sure beats anything else!’
Susan recognized his enthusiasm, but she’d never seen someone that excited about anything besides music. She opened her mouth, then shut it quickly. She had questions, but she could sneak some time on the nets later. And by now, John was probably getting impatient.
But he noticed her hesitation. ‘Go ahead. You can talk! This is a baseball field – you can say anything you want. No such thing as stupid question or stupid comment. We’re not picky around here. Besides, if this is your first time, you probably have tons of questions. Did you catch the whole game?’
‘I don’t know.’ She hated admitting it, but it was true. ‘I don’t think so. I only came in a few minutes ago.’
‘A few minutes? Then you missed most of it. But you caught the best part. And you liked it, didn’t you!’
Susan Isaacs nodded. ‘Very much.’
He laughed. When he did, his mouth opened wide, and his eyes crinkled at the corner. Susan Isaacs didn’t stare, but she wanted to. How was he so friendly, so open, so relaxed?
Then he said, ‘I saw you creeping down the risers.’
She started.
‘No, no, don’t worry! Sorry. That’s a weird thing to say, isn’t it?’
She nodded slightly. ‘I wasn’t creeping.’
‘Yes, you were. Or stalking. Like a cat, that sees something it wants, but worries that if it goes to fast, that thing will disappear.’
A melancholy smile passed behind her eyes.
‘And then you didn’t come out. There was half a person standing there, watching. We don’t get half-people very often. When people watch baseball, they’re WHOLE people. And that’s a good thing.’ He leaned back, stretching his tanned arms over his head, then settled forward, elbows on his knees. ‘Baseball sets people easy. They relax. They laugh, they yell, they run around, they tell jokes, they eat popcorn. It’s FUN.’
This was the strangest thing that had ever happened to Susan E. Isaacs. She was sitting by a baseball field, and a long-haired attractive young man was talking comfortably to her. She said, ‘Everyone is happy here.’
He grinned. ‘Yup.’ He looked out over the field, still filled with people. They were starting to leave, in small groups, families, friends, but their voices still echoed loudly. ‘Happy people.’ He looked straight at Susan – ‘Are you happy?’
She started. Again. This young man was knocking her off-balance, saying the strangest things, treating her as if he’d known her for years. But he had asked a question, and seemed to want a response. ‘… I think so. When I was watching, I felt… bubbly inside.’ An expression of bewilderment found her face. ‘It was a strange feeling.’ She looked up over the risers. ‘This is a strange place to me.’
He grinned again. ‘That’s just because you’ve never been here before, right? New things always seem strange. If you come back, it will be less strange.’
Susan E. Isaacs looked straight up at his eyes then. ‘Come back?’
‘Of course!’ He sat up and spread his arms. ‘Did you think we only play once? There are games every week! We’ve got a whole season ahead of us – months of games. My brother plays on a team, so I’m almost always here. Got to support him, and all that.’ He winked at her. ‘But sometimes I come even when he’s not playing, and I cheer for another team. He hates it when I do that!’ He leaned forward again. ‘In fact, next weekend he’s not playing. It’ll be the Doubles and the Sparrows playing – always a fun match-up. If you think you like baseball, wait til you see a whole game! I can explain it, too, so it all makes sense, take some of the confusion away…’ He trailed off.
She just stared blankly. Hope and confusion and fear battled in her. She’d love to see a game! But if her father found out… And how would she get there? Did this young man just ask her to go with him?!? ‘I… I don’t know,’ she faltered. ‘I have to practice…’ She looked up the risers, to the door she’d come through. ‘I mean…’ She looked at her hands, spread, sore fingertips reminding her of her grueling schedule. She clenched her fists, and glanced up. ‘I want to see a game.’
‘Great!’ He slapped his palms to his knees. ‘Then you can come next week. Game starts at 3 – it’s ok if you’re late. I’ll find you.’ His smile was contagious now. Susan Isaacs found herself starting to smile, too, without understanding why.
‘Susan! Susan E!’ another voice rang above the fading hubbub of the field. Her smile bolted away, frightened. It was John. She had made him wait too long. The young man noticed her reaction. A small crease formed between his eyes.
‘Susan?’ he said softly.
She turned to him, on her feet and leaving.
He stood. There was a gentleness in his face. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. If you can come next week, then come. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.’ He stretched out his right hand. ‘Name’s [], by the way. I’m glad we met.’
She shook his hand. It was strong, reminding her of the concert pianist she had met last month. But brown. Musicians usually had pale skin. Their eyes met, and her shyness rose up. She wondered if he had ever heard of Mendelssohn. ‘Thank you, [].’ And she turned and started climbing the risers, quickly, hoping John wouldn’t come looking here and then tell Father where she’d been.
At the door, she turned. [] was watching her. He raised a hand, and she waved back, timidly, before stepping into the dimness of the corridor.(This is a story based on a dream. I rarely - meaning never - write stories, but I had to do something with it. Especially since the name Susan Isaacs stuck with me. I remembered later that there is an author names Susan Isaacs, but I was not thinking of her at the time. Any similarities are entirely coincidental. The dialogue isn't right. It was better in the dream, but exact dialogue I never remember, only ideas, directions, approximations. And it's not exactly as the dream was. Simply based on it. I don't have a name for the young man yet. My apologies. Let me know what you think, as story writing is NOT my strong point. All the same, I hope you enjoy it!)
