Strxia (eBook)

Chapter 2

Right Field

Coach Mirkana calmly watched his assistant coach, Doug Beck, let loose on the players during their fourth practice of the season. “Coach Bark,” as the players secretly referred to him for his tendency to growl out commands like a pit bull, was particularly intense today. Mirkana took it all in stride. After working with his assistant coach during the past few weeks, he was used to his abrasive style, but he could tell his players were on edge.

“For the love of all things sane in baseball, Greg! Get your mitt dirty when grounding a ball. I could drive a train under there,” Coach Beck screamed as Greg watched a grounder go between his legs to the outfield.

Greg stayed bent over, yoga style, keeping his head between his knees as he watched the outfielder scoop up the ball. This served two purposes. One was to examine if, in fact, a train could be driven between his mitt and the ground. He determined one could not. The other was in hopes that, if he waited long enough, Coach Beck might turn his attention elsewhere. He was successful in this respect.

Coach Beck next hit a dribbler down the third base line. The third baseman appropriately charged and scooped up the ball, but his throw to first came up short.

“Steven!” Beck hollered. “What are you doing? My dead grandma can throw to first better than that.”

Crack! Coach Beck hit a pop fly to left field. Cole ran for it, but he misjudged the ball and it landed eight feet in front of him.

Beck was all over him. “Wheels, Cole, wheels! You gotta get there.”

It seemed nobody was up to the task in Coach Beck’s view.

“Chase. What’s up? That mitt gotta hole in it or something?

“What are you scared of, Alex? Is that ball the boogie man or what?

“Get in front of that ball, Turner. Chicks dig scars!

“Smitty, my man! I do believe I’ve seen a three-toed sloth move faster than that on Brazilian National ‘Be Even Slower than Normal’ Sloth Day.”

Seth watched with bewildered amazement from right field, thinking to himself, Why would anyone want to play a sport where you’re compared to dead grandmas and three-toed sloths? Is this supposed to be fun?

While taking it all in, Seth did have fun in his own way. Fun, for Seth, was numbers. Amidst the yelling and commotion, Seth was thinking about math.

Seth’s first memories contained numbers. His birth certificate, shown to him on his third birthday by his mom, had a set of them in the upper left-hand corner: 32-146178. It also had a state filing number next to his mom’s name: Linda Cox, file 423-16-467525. He still remembered these numbers, seven years later, like most numerical groupings that were meaningful to him.

A few days after Seth’s third birthday, his mom sat next to him at their small kitchen table while he enjoyed a snack of English peas. Linda watched while Seth used a fork to push the peas around his plate for a long time, making all sorts of crazy designs. Seth seemed to enjoy moving peas as much as eating them, so they were a regular part of his meals.

Linda kept up a steady stream of chatter while Seth industriously arranged his peas. Seth didn’t say anything. In fact, he never said anything. Linda had discussed this with Seth’s pediatrician on several occasions because Seth was so late learning to talk. All the other boys and girls at preschool could talk, so she worried. The pediatrician told her that Seth was on his own schedule and would speak when he was ready.

On this particular night, after more than three years of near silence, Seth paused from his work and tapped the kitchen table with his fork to get Linda’s attention. He then pointed his fork at her and clearly said, “Momma.”

Before Linda could react, Seth went on, “Momma… fa to tee wa seksa fa seksa eaven eye to eye.”

“Yes, Seth, that’s me! I’m Momma!” cried Linda. She had missed the rest: 423-16-467525.

Linda reached over to hug him, but Seth put up his hand. He was not done. Pointing to himself this time, he said, “Seff… tee to wa fa seksa wa eaven eh.”

“Yes, Seth, that’s your name!” said Linda, without deciphering the numbers: 32-146178. Tears welling in her eyes, she wrapped him in a warm embrace.

Seth, never much for snuggling, momentarily accepted the hug before returning his attention to his square plate. Concentrating, he moved all the peas to the center, making bulldozer noises as he worked. He then moved a single pea to one corner and two peas to another corner. Satisfied with his effort, he tapped the plate with his fork two times.

“Dubba,” Seth said, his green eyes wide as he looked up at his mom. Linda cocked her head to the side, a bit like a penguin does when inspecting something new and interesting.

In the third corner of the plate, Seth moved six peas. Tap, tap, tap went his fork, making sure he had Linda’s attention. “Tipple,” he said, eyes up again, seeking acknowledgment. Linda’s gaze went from the plate to her son. She smiled uncertainly. He giggled.

Seth took his time while moving peas to the final corner of the plate. One by one, he brought peas from the center to the corner, until he reached 24. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Seth’s fork tapped each of the four corners. Linda watched, mesmerized. Double, triple…Surely not, she thought. Surely not. And then Seth said, “Kaduple.”

Seth giggled again and said, “Peas yummy, Momma.”

Linda barely slept that night. As she drank a strong cup of coffee the following morning, she remained at a loss. But by that evening, she’d made up her mind. After she picked up Seth from preschool, they took the bus downtown to the Bridgeport County Library. She held Seth’s hand as they asked the librarian for books with numbers.

“Oh, the children’s section is over there,” said the librarian, pointing to brightly colored bookshelves. “Try One Duck, Two Ducks. It’s great.”

“No. No. I’m looking for books more on my level,” hedged Linda. The librarian directed her to the back of the building where the shelves held racks of books about math, science, and physics.

Linda randomly pulled books and placed them on the floor in front of her son. Seth wasn’t particularly skilled at turning pages, so Linda sat down next to him. Leaf by leaf, they spent the next two hours on the library carpet, Seth’s eyes alight with excitement as he stared at pages and pages of numbers.

Linda and Seth returned to the library every Monday and checked out five math books for Seth. Each night after dinner for the rest of the week, they settled in comfortably on their old beige sofa with Muffin, their beloved rescue mutt, and spent the rest of the evening looking at math. All Seth wanted to do was eat, sleep, and read math books with his mom and Muffin.

Before long, Seth was applying numbers to his daily life. While riding the bus downtown, he could talk to his mom and simultaneously count the streetlights as they rushed by or the number of cars passing in the opposite direction. Eventually, he took on larger groupings, such as calculating the number of bricks on the façade of a six-story building.

As the years passed, complex patterns emerged. Seth’s counting evolved to multivariate equations. He began sitting directly behind the bus driver in order to observe the speedometer and compare the time elapsed from stop to stop with the distances shown on the map mounted on the sidewall. His estimates took into account variables such as start time, day of the week, weather patterns, and anything else he could think of, such as whether or not his favorite bus driver (Peggy) had her typical cup of coffee (spice latte was her favorite, he knew) perched in the cup holder.

And so Seth found himself thinking about numbers out in right field on this chilly April evening. While Coach Beck continued to yell and commotion ensued, Seth became so involved in his calculations that he decided to lie down in the grass to concentrate. Seth thought more clearly without his shoes, so he kicked them off. This had always been the case. Every week at the library, the staff would find him stretched out on the floor with his sneakers a few aisles away.

Right about this moment, Coach Beck noticed Seth, staring up at the sky with his cleats nowhere in sight.

Beck went on the warpath. His commanding voice shook Seth out of his reverie. “Seth Cox, what in the name of baseball madness are you doing?”

“I’m thinking, Sir,” Seth replied politely.

“Thinking? Thinking?! Son, there’s no thinking in baseball!” Beck was about to blow a gasket. “Put your shoes on! Stand up and get baseball ready!”

“May I inquire why?” Seth asked, out of pure curiosity.

“Wh-wh-why?” Beck sputtered. “Why? Let’s say a ball is hit to you. Do you think it’s your job to field it? While you’re out there...