Author’s Note

Milan Kundera says the novelist should make himself invisible, so his personal life doesn’t intrude on his work like weeds encroaching on a carefully tended garden. But another strategy might be for the writer to carefully propagate a series of fictions about himself. Of course I’m playing around in the shallow end of the pool, where my splashings aren’t likely to be noticed by anyone, and might even be mistaken for the musings of someone who takes himself too seriously, but here’s a slightly modified version of my author’s note for Monkeybicycle Issue Four. John Leary suggested we supplement our bios with stories about our experiences as ballplayers. Here is what I wrote:

Sean Carman is an environmental lawyer in Washington, D.C. His writing appears in the anthologies Stumbling and Raging: More Politically Inspired Fiction and Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans: The Best of McSweeney’s (Humor Category). More often his work shows up in small literary magazines like the one you are holding now.

For three glorious years Carman was the starting catcher for Tony’s Pizza in the Laramie, Wyoming Little Leagues. He was a natural: a Buddhist’s calm behind the plate, sharp reflexes, and he ran just enough chatter to distract the hitters without getting into trouble. His chatter was good. The umps didn’t mind it but it drove the hitters nuts. Carman had a gift.

And he could catch anything. Wild pitches, pop fouls, you name it. Once, with two outs and the bases loaded, the shortstop threw home for the force even though the easier throw was to first. That’s how reliable Carman was at the plate.

Alas, it all came to an end because Carman could not hit. Never mind trying to hit a curve, Carman couldn’t even stay in the batter’s box on a slow pitch outside. His status as an automatic out doomed his prospects with the American Legion teams, who played in a complex of small-scale ballparks on the outskirts, with hot-dog vendors and everything. Carman went to a couple of games though. Sat in the mostly-empty stands and watched the catcher line a couple of warm-up throws to second, thinking that could have been him, with a little more nerve and a harder throw against a runner trying to steal. The setting sun dressed the horizon in orange, the field lights flickered on, and the night air came alive with the sound of the P.A. announcer shuffling some papers and blowing into his mike. These memories still come back to Carman sometimes, in pieces, like fragments of ancient tile, broken but with colors too vivid to be real. Carman sipped his Coke and pulled his collar up against the wind. One day, and before too much longer, it would be time to start high school.