Psychic Baseball
Reaching out to a young boy
It was near the end of the one year I lived in Los Angeles when I ran into an old friend from Texas at the grocery store. We were on opposite sides of a large table display of mangoes when we looked up and saw each other.
“What the hell are you doing in California?”
We both said that at the same time. I walked around the mango table and greeted her. We stood there talking and catching up for close to half an hour.
Her name was Jennifer. (She was adamant about never being called Jenny; it had to be Jennifer.) She was a single mom on the verge of turning 40. She had a 12 year old boy named Jason and a 10 year old girl named Julie (they were a ‘J’ family). I met her back in Texas because she was the sister of a friend of mine. She was always there at my friend’s parties so I got to know her a little bit.
What I liked about her was her laugh. It could be heard a block away. And she laughed with her entire body. She practically convulsed when she laughed. I always tried to make her laugh so that I could witness the spectacle.
It turned out that she had just moved to Los Angeles a couple of months earlier to take a much better paying job. It was her first time living outside of Texas. She had not yet made any real friends and it was nice for her to run into someone she actually knew. We agreed that we would have to get together sometime. We exchanged phone numbers then finished our shopping.
About a week later Jennifer called me on the phone to ask me a favor.
“Listen, I’ve got a situation. It’s my boy, Jason. You know how kids will go through phases… Well, he is currently going through an extremely frustrating phase that is driving me cuckoo bananas. I need some help.”
At the time I was in my mid-twenties; still young and stupid, “Jennifer, I’ve never had kids. I don’t know anything about child psychology and their phases. My only experience is with my own childhood which was so dysfunctional that I have no idea what a normal childhood is…”
“That’s okay. I’m not really asking for advice. Let me explain: This current phase of his started about a month before we left Texas. He, like all kids — what is it with kids and their phases? — has been in this phase for over three months now. Usually his phases only last about six weeks…”
“Uh… you see… uh, he stopped talking. Completely. One day a month before we left Texas he just stopped talking. He would nod his head yes or no if I asked him a question — or grunt — but he refused to speak. Not a word has come out of his mouth in over three months!”
“Can you imagine what it must be like to drive across the country from Texas to California with a twelve year old boy who doesn’t say a single word? Julie and I had some delightful discussions but all Jason did was sit there staring out the car window. Then we arrive in Los Angeles and I enroll him in school just a month before the end of the school year. Apparently it was not enough time for him to make any new male friends.”
“And now it’s summer vacation and he has no male friends to play with. He just mopes around the apartment all day not talking. He won’t leave the damn apartment! He lives with his sister and his mommy and we’re the only people he has any contact with. He has no male friends, no male parental figures. He’s like utterly lost.”
I started feeling uncomfortable about where this might be headed.
“Well, yesterday Jason actually spoke. I just about had a heart attack. Before I tell you what he said I should first tell you that after the divorce the kids’ scumbag father would only come visit them three or four or five times a year. But at least a couple of those times he would take the kids down to Houston to attend a baseball game in the Astrodome. Jason was always so happy after returning from those games. And, apparently, he turned into a Houston Astros fan.”
“So yesterday after dinner Jason said, ‘Mom…’ That is when the heart attack symptoms first appeared. ‘Mom, the Astros are coming to Los Angeles this weekend to play the Dodgers. Can you take me to a game?’ I was so shocked by the fact that he spoke that I didn’t know what to say. I stumbled and fumbled and stuttered — suddenly I was the one who couldn’t talk — and I finally said, ‘Sure.’ What else could I possibly say?”
She continued, “Now there are two problems with this. First of all, I hate baseball. It’s the stupidest and most boring game ever invented. Sitting through five hours of a baseball game would be absolute torture for me. I’d rather stick hot needles into my eyeballs.”
“Now while I think him going to a ball game would be really, really, really good for him, I think he needs to go to the game with a MALE, not his mommy. So… uh… I was… I was wondering if you liked baseball or knew anything about it…”
I finally spoke up, “Well, I know enough about baseball to know that games very rarely ever last five hours. But I can understand your disdain of America’s sport. It’s definitely a testosterone thing. But I have to tell you that I have not been to or watched a baseball game on TV in like a decade. I’m totally out of the loop as to what is going on today. But I grew up with a father who was a wannabe Major League pitcher. Pitching for the Pittsburgh Pirates was his life-long fantasy — which he never realized. I spent a lot of Saturdays in the summers of my youth watching baseball on TV with my dad. It was one of the few times I was able to bond with him. And I have to say that after the family moved to Texas I was ever so briefly — despite my father’s religious devotion to the Pirates — a Houston Astros fan.”
“Really?! Seriously?! Oh my God, that’s perfect! Oh, I know this is a huge favor to ask of you but would you please take my boy to a baseball game at Dodger Stadium? Please? Pretty please? That would save me from having to go but more importantly he needs to go with a male. Aside from the disgusting dickheads in my office you’re the only male I know in Southern California. I would appreciate it so much. I’ll pay for the tickets, the snacks, the gas, the souvenirs, whatever. I’ll even throw in some extra money — whatever it takes. I’ll be in your debt forever if you do this. Please!”
I was an ignorant twenty-something with no parenting experience. I had never been a male role model. My only experience with twelve year old boys was when I was a twelve year old boy — and that wasn’t exactly pretty. I had no clue how to deal with psychological phases when a twelve year old boy refuses to speak. What the heck was I getting myself into?
But then again I had been living in Los Angeles for almost a year and I had yet to visit Dodger Stadium so I agreed to take Jennifer’s twelve year old son to a baseball game.
After picking up Jason the drive to Dodger Stadium was pure misery. I kept trying to start up a conversation but the little brat refused to say a word. I thought, Thank goodness I’m not driving across the country!
I finally quit trying to engage him in verbal chit-chat as I parked and then we waited in line to get in and then we made our way to our seats in the upper deck.
After an inning or two of silence I asked Jason if he wanted a hot dog — or more precisely, a Dodger Dog. He nodded affirmatively. I asked him if he wanted nachos to go with that. He shrugged his shoulders. I asked him if he wanted a Coke. He nodded affirmatively. I then asked him if he wanted a polar bear sandwich. No response.
Nothing.
I got the food and we ate over the next inning or two. After we were done eating I once again tried to prod him into conversation. I told him about how I used to watch baseball with my father.
Nothing.
I told how I was ever so briefly an Astros fan when I first moved to Texas and how I used to listen to Astros games on the radio.
Nothing.
I told him about the time I attended a ball game at the old Baltimore stadium and saw both Frank Robinson and Carl Yastzremski hit homers that day.
Nothing.
I told him about the time in pee wee baseball when I almost fainted after being hit in the groin by a baseball.
Nothing.
Then I completely made up a story about how I once shook hands with Babe Ruth.
Nothing.
It was like talking to a hypnotized chimp in a trance. I finally gave up. I quit talking. I looked around me and realized that on a bright, beautiful, sunny day in Southern California I was sitting in Dodger Stadium! I had seen the stadium many times on TV but I had never been there and now I was! I could feel the excitement of the tens of thousands of people watching the game (The Dodgers were up 3–0). I savored the experience.
And then… I looked down at the field and I saw an Astro batter come out of the dugout with bat in hand heading for the batter’s box. And that is when I was overcome with a very strong psychic feeling…
I tapped Jason’s arm, “Just watch. This batter is going to hit a double off the right field fence scoring the guy at second base.”
Nothing.
The batter came to the plate. The first pitch was a ball in the dirt. The second pitch was a called strike. The third pitch was a foul ball. Then, on the fourth pitch, the batter belted a high fly ball into right field. It hit off the fence for a double that scored the runner on second base.”
Jason turned to me with eyes bugged out, “Holy shit! How’d you do that?”
I tilted my head to the side in an every-so-slightly condescending way and replied, “Haven’t you ever played Psychic Baseball before?”
“What?” (He was talking!)
“Psychic Baseball is a game you can play while watching baseball. When a batter walks up to the plate you stop all thinking and FEEL the vibrations coming off of him. The first impression that comes to mind is your psychic impression. You FEEL what he is about to do in that at-bat. You then state that impression to whoever you are watching the game with. You are either right or you are wrong. The winner is the one with most correct psychic impressions over the course of the game.”
Jason looked at me like I was one fish fillet, a shrimp and two hush puppies short of a seafood platter, “Sorry, but I can’t play that stupid game. I’m not psychic.”
Rather forcefully, I slapped my leg, “Yes you are! Every single solitary human is born with psychic ability. But we are told from birth practically that psychic ability is pure hokum. We are told to never trust it; to only trust the reasoning part of our noggin. So we never use our natural psychic ability and therefore it atrophies.”
“It what?”
“It’s like when we never use a certain muscle it keeps getting weaker and weaker and eventually becomes useless. Psychic ability is like any other ability. If we don’t use it, we lose it. If our psychic ability is going to get stronger we’ve got to exercise it just like any muscle. The game of ‘Psychic Baseball’ is a fantastic way to exercise our natural psychic ability.”
Jason rolled his eyes and scrunched his forehead.
“The thing to remember when playing Psychic Baseball is to NOT THINK! Thinking is what blocks psychic ability! You have to completely clear your noggin of thinking! You have to instead FEEL. You have to FEEL the vibes coming off that approaching batter. Sometimes a batter will not be giving off any discernible vibes and it’s impossible to FEEL it. A lot of times the batter will be exuding serious vibes. If you are not thinking, especially about that batter’s stats and what they are prone to do, or even who that batter is, and just FEEL the vibes coming off of him as he approaches home plate then you will get an impression of what he is about to do. It’s the first thought or feeling you have. In Psychic Baseball you then state what you FEEL he is about to do.”
“When playing the game of Psychic Baseball at the end of the game the one with the highest percentage of correct psychic impressions wins. Mind you, you will be wrong more than you are right — especially if you have not exercised your psychic ability. But seriously, if you are right ten percent of the time or more you are doing very well. Seriously, try it just for fun. Remember, the most important thing is to NOT think but FEEL.”
“Psychic Baseball sounds stupid,” Jason said as he turned to look down at the batter walking up to the plate. “Okay, this guy’s gonna hit a single up the middle.”
On the third pitch the batter hit a ground ball up the middle but the second baseman made an incredible play and threw the batter out at first base.
“Jason, that was pretty awesome. You predicted he would hit a ground ball up the middle for a single and…”
“Yeah, but he didn’t get a single. He got thrown out.”
“True but you predicted he would hit it up the middle and he did. That was a very close prediction!”
Looking at Jason watching the game I was overcome with astonishment. He actually spoke!
But then he immediately went right back into silence and didn’t speak for the next couple of innings. I simply did not know what else to do. At least he spoke for a few minutes. It was the best I could get out of him.
I enjoyed the silence as I watched the game. I tried to play Psychic Baseball quietly by myself but I was not getting many impressions at all. I was totally out of practice.
I first played Psychic Baseball as a kid while watching baseball with my father. He’s the one I learned the game from — although he never called it Psychic Baseball. And I don’t think he actually utilized his natural psychic abilities. His predictions were mostly based on a player’s stats and whether or not he liked the player. But he always made a prediction as a player came up to bat. His success percentage was probably somewhere around five percent.
So I went along with making the predictions but instead of using my noggin to analyze stats or letting my opinions of a player influence my predictions I started using my gut instead. I soon realized that my gut was far more successful than my noggin. So after my father would make his prediction I would then make mine. My success rate was a little closer to ten percent — and it got a little better with practice.
I was enjoying my fond reminiscing of watching baseball with my father as a kid when suddenly Jason turned to me, “Oh my God! This next batter’s gonna hit a home run. He’s gonna hit a homer! I can feel it!”
I looked down at the field. The Astros had a runner at both first and second base. If this batter did in fact hit a home the Astros would take the lead.
The first pitch to the new batter was a swing and a miss. The second pitch was a swing and a miss. On the third pitch the batter hit a high fly ball that cleared the left field fence for a home run!
Jason turned to me and high-fived me. He jumped to his feet and started yelling and screaming at the top of his voice while pumping the air with his fists. (Being surrounded by Dodger fans, he got a lot of mean looks but he was oblivious of that.)
I watched Jason with astonishment. He transformed before my eyes. From the moment that ball cleared the left field fence Jason’s phase of silence ended and he entered a new phase. For the rest of the game as well as the drive home he just kept talking and talking and talking. I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise.
The next day Jennifer called me up, “What the hell did you do to my son?! He won’t shut up! He just won’t shut up. And what the hell is Psychic Baseball?”
“First of all… You’re welcome.” I then explained psychic baseball to her. “Seriously, Jennifer, I don’t know what I did although I have a theory or two. I tried everything. He just wouldn’t talk. I told him about Psychic Baseball and he actually spoke a few sentences. But then he immediately shut down again. I gave up.”
“Jennifer, I’m not a child psychologist. I’m thoroughly ignorant about such matters. I’m really just a child myself. But I figure if a kid is eerily silent on the outside that it is probably very loud on the inside for them. They’ve probably got an infinite loop of thinking patterns playing non-stop in their noggin. Those thinking loops keep playing and playing and the kid gets sucked into them and becomes divorced from interaction with the outside world. He gets stuck. The thing to do is to stop those loops of thinking long enough to briefly pull him out into an awareness of life without those thinking loop patterns. It’s like a scratched vinyl record that just keeps skipping and skipping and skipping until you finally pick up the needle from the record. Seriously, though, I really don’t know what I did.”
Jennifer was silent for a moment then spoke, “Well… uh… thank you. I really appreciate what you did whatever that was. Of course he went from one extreme to the other. One minute he’s in a phase where he refuses to speak then the next minute he’s in a new phase where he just won’t shut up! What is it with kids and their phases?”
It was soon thereafter that I left Los Angeles. After that delightful afternoon at Dodger Stadium I have on occasion wondered how Jason turned out as an adult. Was he a shy introverted type? Or was he a loud, boisterous out-going type? I never found out because I never heard from Jennifer or her son ever again.
Almost three years after leaving Los Angeles I became a father to a delightful little girl and that is when my education on parenting began. Luckily for me, that little angel was a fantastic teacher.
Years later when my daughter was old enough I played Psychic Baseball with her. (I hadn’t watched any baseball since that day in Dodger Stadium.) It turned out that together we entered a baseball phase and it turned out to be very bonding. Not only did we watch baseball together but we played catch and I pitched to her so she could practice her hitting. The second our baseball mitts were on our hands we were in a very special daddy/daughter zone.
When it came to Psychic Baseball, playing it with my daughter improved my success rate close to fifteen percent. My daughter’s success rate, however, hovered between fifty percent and seventy percent. She blew my mind! She was an undisputed Psychic Baseball master!
Then one day, out of the blue, she suddenly decided that she was done with baseball; playing it, watching it or playing Psychic Baseball. Over the course of just a day her baseball phase was over and she entered the next phase of her young life. From that day forward neither she nor I have watched baseball ever again.
What is it with kids and their phases?
Copyright by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. White Feather Stories
Speaking of kids’ phases…
