Good morning, friends and followers, and welcome to June. I sincerely hope it finds you well. June 1st, and if I tilt my head just right, I can still catch the lingering scent of last year’s Christmas tree… Now, that’s horror!
This month I’m going to continue my series on my writing techniques that I began last month in The Hero’s Cage. To illustrate the importance of my point I’m going to turn to a sports analogy. Yeah, I hear you, but let me assure you that if you’ve spent your entire life rooting for San Diego sports teams, sports IS horror. Anyway, I’m going to try to develop an idea I first toyed with back in my writing.com days, the link between baseball and writing, so if anyone who knew me then finds this vaguely familiar, that’s why.
I’ve been a baseball fan since my toddler days when grandma would take me out to the Termite Emporium, old, wooden Lane Field at the foot of Broadway in San Diego to watch the minor league Padres play their home games. From her I learned to score and a good many other things about the game once known as America’s Pastime.
Then came 1994, the year I turned 46, and Major League Baseball celebrated my October birthday by canceling the World Series, a favor I returned by canceling my support of baseball. Football season was just starting up, and I shifted my loyalty to the San Diego Chargers, a team that football fans will know as one that lit up scoreboards and the hopes of fans year after year only to lose the big one on some ridiculous play that has a name that you can look up on Google to this day.
But baseball was my first love, being a chess game as opposed to football’s gang fights, and I’ve continued to watch — I’m too old to play anymore — college ball, amateur ball, and minor league ball wherever I can find it. I also manage the Padres in Out of the Park, an excellent fully licensed video game that performs remarkably close to the real thing.
But here’s the thing. All my life, everyone who knows the game, from grandma to school coaches, to fellow sandlot players have told me that baseball is a team game, and that’s true. When there’s a drive to left field, all nine fielders don’t chase the ball; they cover their bases and wait for the left fielder to throw it back in. The unchoreographed ballet of a 6-4-3 double play is more exciting to me than a pitcher closing in on a no-hitter in the eighth inning, or the individual statement of a grand slam. Baseball is very much a team game, and yet the flow is made up of individual showdowns.
A man has a ball, and he’s going to try to throw it past a man with a bat. It’s High Noon on the baseball diamond. If the batsman succeeds in putting the ball into play, it then becomes his running speed against the fielder’s arm. If he reaches base, he might try to steal, in which case the contest becomes one of his speed against the catcher’s reflexes. I could go on for an hour or so, but my point is that every play in this team game boils down to two players pitting their skills against each other. One wins, and one loses. Every play.
Example: Last season, future hall of fame pitcher Max Scherzer had a six-run lead in the fourth; it had been eight. Due up with the bases loaded and two out was perennial minor-league pitcher Daniel Camerena, a home-town boy who had been called up the night before. His manager had to let him bat, as the bullpen was decimated, and he had to stay in for at least several innings. Daniel worked the count to 1 and 2, then left his mark on Padres’ history. You can watch one of the most exciting mini-dramas in sports here. High Noon.
But how am I going to tie this into literature? Easy. The Padres team was on the ropes, seemingly headed for abject defeat, just as the world of men was on the Pellanor Fields. Then one unlikely hero rose to perform his single act, then leave the stage. No one expected the 29-year-old career minor leaguer to spark the rally that would see the Padres come back to win any more than anyone expected the Witch King whom “no man could slay” to encounter the one woman on the battlefield who had disguised herself as a man to play her part in the war, but there it was. Two principals. One winner. High Noon.
The lesson: Though you write about armies, politics, corporations, teams of experts or criminals, bring your focus down to individuals. Create memorable heroes and villains and let us get to know them. Not the army they’re part of, the law firm, the government; them. Every good story, whether in real life or fiction, is ultimately High Noon. It’s what I strive for in every story, but only my readers can tell me whether I’ve succeeded.
Care to make your own judgment? A few short tales await right here. I just added a new one last night. As is always the case with Vella, the first three stories are free to read. So, how did I do?
Threads that Bind 
4 responses to “High Noon”
Jack: As a lifelong baseball fanatic, I can guarantee you that every game, at some point, has a moment of high drama, a memory that crawls into your brain and remains forever. I thank CW Hawes for leading me to your blog today. It was a winner on several levels.
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Welcome to the Web, Caleb, and thanks for stopping by. It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve always believed that baseball is a more “honest” game, for want of a better word. When someone hits a home run, everyone stands up and cheers; when someone scores a touchdown, everyone holds their breath and looks for penalty flags. In all my decades of watching baseball, I’ve only seen (aside from the George Brett incident) one run taken off the board. A runner missed third on his way home and was called out. But I’ve always said that if baseball was like football, then a pitcher with a one-run lead in the ninth would lie down on the mound and wait for the clock to run out.
I guess you can tell that, while I was writing about the Craft here, I’m never too busy to talk a little baseball. I, too, am glad that CW led you here; I feel almost like I know you through his words of praise. Now that you’re here, would you like to stay? Drop me a line if you’d like to have that discussion. Either way, great to hear from you, and thanks for taking the time!
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I would love to talk baseball. My love of the game dates back to my growing up days in East Texas when I listened through the static of KMOX in St. Louis to hear Harry Caray and Jack Buck broadcast the Cardinal games. It was the days of Musial, Boyer, Schoendienst., and Busch Bavarian beer.
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I may have presented myself in, let’s say, an enhanced light. Everything in the article is true. I spent my childhood idolizing the San Diego Padres of the PCL. Before the war they were a farm team for Boston, and Ted Williams played at Lane Field. I, of course, wasn’t around for that. By the time I came on the scene they were a farm for Cleveland. I saw Mudcat Grant on his way up, and Rudy Regalado on his way down. The Padres joined the majors while I was off serving with the navy, and when I returned, they were suffering the fate of all expansion teams. I want to say their big star was Sixto Lezcano, but he came later; I don’t remember anybody from that era, really.
The Padres I remember had Alan Wiggins leading off. Greased lightning. This guy stole home off a right-handed pitcher in a playoff game. Picked his moment and just went. Of course, later we learned that he was ripped to the tits on speed, but that didn’t make him any less exciting. We had Ozzie Smith before we traded him to St. Louis for Garry Templeton. Ozzie was to shortstops what Brooks was to third basemen, but he wasn’t happy here. Tempe didn’t have the defensive skills of Ozzie (who did?), but he was a great 2-hitter behind Wiggins. Rarely struck out, almost always put the ball in play. Batting third was “Mr. Padre,” Tony Gwynn. Batting champ almost every year he played, and never played for another team. We had a series of cleanup hitters; Steve Garvey for the WS run in ’84, then Jack Clark, then Fred McGriff. The 5-spot was Darrin Jackson, CF, who used his intelligence to make himself a better player than he would have been otherwise. After Tempe left, he was replaced by Roberto Alomar who was an absolute magician at 2nd. We had Ken Caminiti at 3rd for a while, and Benito Santiago, a cannon-armed catcher who it was certain death to steal on; sometimes just taking a leadoff from first was all he needed to throw a man out. Jerry Coleman was the announcer in those days: “You can hang a star on that baby!”
And then came the strike in ’94, and that’s when my involvement ends. I watched the minors when I could, and college ball, and even enjoyed that women’s barnstorming team that Coors Lite sponsored around 2000, the Silver Bullets, I think they were called. As far as MLB, sometimes YouTube offers clips of best plays that I’ll check out. That’s where I found the clip of Camarena, but as far as going back to eat, sleep, live, and breathe baseball again, it’s a flaw in my character: Somebody spits in my face, I don’t go back for a second helping.
Sorry. Rant over. I love the game, but I just can’t. Thanks for sparking all those great memories, though. I’ve enjoyed it immensely!
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