THERE ARE RUNNERS on first and second and two outs in the top of the first inning of the first game of organized baseball I’ve played in seven years, and on the pitcher’s mound, a large inverted triangle of a man with thin eyes set deep in a bone-ridged face toes the rubber. His name is Mario. Behind him, the green hump of Marin County’s Mount Tamalpais rises over a high concrete wall and one palm tree wavers. The wooden bat is a welcome, familiar weight in my sweating fingers, and the soles of my cleats are heavy, weighed down with clumps of infield mud. Gulls circle, and I can smell the sea. They made baseball for afternoons like this. 

The crowd, a group of about 150 inmates clad entirely in blue and positioned behind home plate, murmurs. Mario wears a permanent grin. Good pitchers don’t grin. Good pitchers, the tired adage goes, are killers. Mario’s fastball can’t be faster than 75 miles per hour; his curve is a long, slow loop. He’s not a killer. At least, I don’t think so. 

“Thanks for coming,” says a voice from behind me as I step into the batter’s box. “It’s a real honor. My name’s Johnny.”

I look back. The catcher, a taut, wiry man, stares up with wide eyes. The tattoos on his neck appear to have tattoos on them. Johnny—now, Johnny could be a killer.

“Thank you,” I say.

In baseball, as in any sport, you play best when you empty your head and keep it simple. Your thoughts should not extend beyond preparation for reflex. Then you step up and get to it.

But just now, as Mario checks the runners, lifts his leg, and delivers, the noise in my head is rattling. 

Mario, Johnny, I think. What did you do?