Considering the emotional heft of the last few posts, I wanted to share something a little lighter. Sometime during the World Series, I came out with the following from engaging in a free-writing exercise. I’ve always wondered about other creative’s approaches/processes, so I’m sharing some of mine.
Originally, this piece started closer to the middle, when our character is preparing to take the field to deliver the first pitch to this old-timey ballgame. Upon taking another glance at the work, I thought it'd be funnier to build some anticipation in the beginning by providing some background of young Abernathy's motivations towards throwing a first pitch.
In my experimentation with fiction, I’m working on my description of action. So, I engage in these exercises to build on that. Lemme know what you think!
Abernathy was pacing the stadium concourse as Connie Mack, the owner of the Philadelphia Athletics, approached with a stadium assistant. Connie casually grasps Abernathy’s hand and recites a warm, but seemingly overly recited welcome.
Abernathy had dreamed of throwing the first pitch since as a boy he’d witnessed then President Calvin Coolidge throw the first pitch at his first Athletics game many years before. At the time, Abernathy was nursing a shiner on his right eye from an infield grounder that took a bad hop and was in the beginning stages of relinquishing his dreams of playing on the field professionally. With so many boys his age much more coordinated than he, the seams of realism were cutting into the 9-year-old with much the same intensity and resulting impact as the seams of the baseball that made him see stars the previous week.
Since then, young Abernathy devoted his attention to his studies. Eventually starting a successful business that would allow him to engage in philanthropic efforts that mirrored Athletics owner Connie Mack, leading to an invitation to throw out the first pitch of the season.
As he was trying to listen to the stadium assistant’s instructions over the cacophony of the crowd for his cue to enter the field, Abernathy’s suspenders got caught in the flagpole rigging. The announcer booms, “and now, out to throw the first pitch: …” and the flags, and Abernathy are hoisted into the air.
His suspenders slipped over his shoulders, flipping poor Abernathy upside down, flying into the air, guided up the flagpole like a bottle rocket. But instead of an explosion, the crowd was treated to a view of Abernathy’s entire ass crack and ball sack. Those in the outfield section may have noticed the hairs protruding from these areas, glossed together with sweat.
Poor Abernathy’s pork pie hat floated into the bleachers as he struggled to maintain any sense of stability to avoid slipping out of his trousers and down to his most embarrassing death.
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