"Are you kidding me?! Strike three?! That pitch was a foot outside," Michael Radzak pointed accusingly at the television.
"Yeah, it may have been a bit wide," his father nodded.
"A bit wide? It was in the other batter's box!"
"Well, maybe not quite that far..."
Mike shook his head and took a sip from his frosted mug of Deal Monkey IPA on the table beside him.
"He's been calling them wide all day," his father, Arthur, noted as he reached for his can of Budweiser. "At least he's consistent. This guy's notorious for having a generous strike zone, but he calls them the same for both sides."
Mike turned toward his father's chair. "What does that even mean, dad? 'He has a strike zone?' Isn't there just one strike zone?"
"Well sure, but..."
"Isn't it the width of the plate---black to black---and the space between the knees and the letters?"
"Yes, that's it."
"Like the little box that the broadcast puts on, showing where each pitch is."
"Yeah."
"Then what the hell does 'his strike zone' mean?"
"It's how the umpire sees the zone."
"Hell, dad, it isn't jazz or interpretive dance is it? The strike zone is the strike zone. An umpire is supposed to enforce that, not interpret it, no?"
Art Radzak sat quietly.
"I mean," his son continued, "if the strike zone is the strike zone, and we have the technology that we obviously do, why the hell don't they just get rid of the umpire and use the electronic box? Why waste time with what one guys sees and some other guy doesn't? Let the machine tell us. Hell, that's what they do in tennis, no?"
"The umpire's part of the game, Mike," Art leaned forward, "a part of a human game, always has been, mistakes and all. It's all part of baseball. You can't take that away; you'd change the essence of the game, the soul of it. Anyway, tennis?!"
"Maybe that soul needs to be changed," Mike replied. "Look at what they've done with replays on plays in the field or on the bases. Has that corrupted the soul of the game? Maybe that's just the first step in finally moving baseball into the twenty-first century."
Art had heard this before from his son, especially the edge on that last phrase.
"Maybe the twenty-first century could learn to understand and appreciate things of value and not just plow over them on the road to wherever the hell we're headed."
Mike Radzak had heard that before too, especially the edge on the last phrase. He just shook his head.
"And when are you going to get a new set anyway?, this little thing is ancient." He pointed to the twenty-eight inch model on the stand beside the fireplace, an early flat-screen that his parents had purchased twelve years ago. "A small step into the new world," his father had proclaimed when they bought it. Mike was seventeen at the time.
"A new set? Why would I get a new television set? There's absolutely nothing wrong with this one."
"It's old, and the picture isn't as sharp as it could be. You've seen the sixty-incher at our place: Smart Screen technology, contour shape, 4-K pixels. It's like you're part of the action, at the event."
"That picture hurts my eyes," his father said softly.
Mike smiled. "That's because the picture's so sharp."
"And it gives me a headache."
The next hitter took a curve inside for ball four, putting two runners on with one out. The Indians, who were two gems behind the Tigers with eight to play, trailed Detroit by two in the bottom of the ninth.
Just as the runner reached first, Michael's three year-old son raced loudly into the small living room.
"Daddy, mommy says we have to go."
Arthur leaned forward to hear the play-by-play.
"Where is mommy, Jaden?" Mike smiled at the boy. "Is she out back with Nana?"
Jaden climbed on the couch beside his father.
"Mommy's in the garden with Nana," he sang out.
Art smiled flinched.
The boy jumped up and down on the couch.
Art cringed. Though old, the couch was still in good condition, one of his wife's favorite pieces in the house. He felt himself lean and his arm move outward.
The boy jumped again, then again.
"Jaden," Arthur heard himself say, not loudly, "please don't jump on Nana's couch."
Michael did a half turn as a broad smile crossed the child's face. He jumped again. Mike turned back to the television.
"Jaden," Arthur dais more firmly.
The child jumped once more.
"Ja..."
Michael turned again, looked at his son and then at his father. He put his left arm around the boy's shoulders. He jumped again.
"Now Jaden, grandpa asked you not to jump on Nana's couch." The arm only slightly modified the next jump.
"Let's make a good decision now, okay?" Michael said calmly.
Jaden looked at his grandfather with a curious blend of innocence and power in his eyes. He jumped again with slightly less energy.
Arthur felt his face warming.
"Now Jaden," Michel said, not conjuring the voice of Mr. Rogers in the room. "Let's make a good decision here."
Arthur Radzak closed his eyes, knowing he was about to speak again, this time with a bit more emphasis and volume.
"Will you..."
Just then, a voice sang from the door to the back porch.
"Michael, is Jaden in there with you?"
It was Ashley, Jaden's mother, Michael's wife, Arthur's only daughter-in-law.
"Mommy!" the child called out, and he leapt down from the couch, trotting in the direction of the piper's call. Mike smiled at his dad as the little boy left.
When he got to the dining room, Jaden took one last look back. Art Radzak could have sworn the tyke winked at him before heading to the porch, but he couldn't be sure. He sat back in his chair and reached for his Bud.
Art felt the urge to once again ask his son just what kind of name 'Jaden' was, but he had learned from the reaction to his first query three years ago that such an interrogative would simply come to no good end.
"What the hell kind of name is that?" was how he chose to ask back then. "I've never heard of that. It there even a Saint Jaden? Is it a family name from Ashley's side? Is it some ballplayer I've never heard of?"
Today, these questions did seem to Arthur Radzak to be a bit too direct, though their legitimacy had never lost its strength for him. And while he had, in time, become accustomed to the name, his efforts to assert 'Jay' as his chosen alternative continued, being met with mixed results. He was still actively engaged in the enterprise, choosing the times and places of its use with precision and care. However, he always used it when playing cards or golf with his friends.
The Detroit manager was out talking with his closer when the focus in the room returned to the game.
"Chisenhall's due up," Art said as he watched the conference on the mound. "Do you think he'll match up with a lefty or keep this guy in?" It was the kind of question that Art loved, the kind of thing that had kept him an ardent baseball fan for more than sixty years.
"Whattya think, Mike?"
The quiet turned Art's head to find his son staring down into his lap poking away at the tiny keyboard of his smart phone.
"Mike?"
"Yeah," Michael Joseph Radzak managed, still focused on his phone. It was the fifth or sixth time he had done so in the last three innings.
"Do you think..." Art shook his head. "Are you watching the game?"
Mike looked up at his father then over to the set. "Sure, sure. Of course I am," he squinted. "Hey, Ausmus is going to the left hander."
Art Radzak rolled his eyes. "What are you doing with that thing all this time?" He pointed to the small black rectangle.
"Oh, I'm just talking with Jeff Handly. He's in Pittsburgh on business, and he..."
His father's face wrinkled. "You're not talking to anyone, Mike. You,re just sending notes back and forth, like kids in the back of class at school."
Mike shrugged at his father, not the first time hearing this.
"Talking is what we're doing right now...well, sort of...in the same place, at the same time, so I can that look you're giving me, and you can hear the tone in my voice."
Mike couldn't fully suppress a grin.
"Sure, I know, but I can't be in the same place with Jeff all the time any more. He's busy. I'm busy."
"Everyone's busy, Mike, more or less. When's the last time you actually spoke with Jeff Handly? Lord knows it's been a long time since your mother and I have seen him over here."
The new pitcher tossed the resin bag aside as he talked with his catcher. Lonnie Chisenhall had been pulled for right-handed Brandon Guyer who now strode to the plate.
"Jeez," Mike looked thoughtful, "it's been at least a year, maybe even longer than that." He shook his head slowly. "Maybe eighteen months."
Guyer stepped into the batter's box.
"That's a long time to not see your best friend, your best man, no?" Art turned back toward the television. Michael didn't say a word.
"Wouldn't you like to see him. I mean, really see him?"
"Dad," his son frowned," I told you, he's really busy now. Ever since he got the new territory in Pennsylvania, he's been on the road a lot. That's how it is in business today. He's out working with the new start-ups all the time."
"That's too bad," Art managed as Brandon Guyer swung and missed a high fastball.
"Well, yes and no," Mike offered, now also watching the game. He jabbed his right hand forward. "That was ball one! Come on Guyer!" He shook his head. "Jeff is starting to make the kind of money that will let Carrie and him afford the nanny they want."
"Nanny," Art muttered to himself.
The next pitch nearly hit Guyer, and he spun away from the plate.
"You should make the effort to keep in touch," Art said.
"I do," Mike held up the phone.
"You know what I mean," Art bristled.
It's a new world they both thought at he same time, the exact moment that Brandon Guyer got hold of a hanging slider, putting a very solid swing on the ball.
Arthur and Michael fell silent as they felt themselves rising upward.
"There's a long fly to left," the announcer called out.
Art and Mike were now stood up.
"Justin Upton's going back."
The Budweiser can rattled on the table. The smart phone slid to the couch.
"He's out of the room; it's out of here!" the announcer yelled.
And Art and Mike Radzak raised their arms and roared.
"It's a walk-off three-run homer, and the Indians pull to within a single game of the Tigers!"
Art stepped over to his son and slapped his right arm over his shoulder. Mike flung his left around his dad's.
The roar of the crowd leapt from the television as if their united voices had pulled the small living room into the very stadium itself.
Then there was a voice rising from the porch.
"Michael," Ashley called out, "come on, we've got to go!"
The arms slid from the shoulders. Mike reached down for his phone; Art grabbed up his beer. Their smiles almost hurt their faces.
"You coming over to watch tomorrow?" Art Radzak asked as he rolled the still-cold can across his forehead.
"Yeah, maybe," Mike nodded, sliding the Samsung into his pocket. "I'll check with Ashley." He grinned. "I'll text mom."
"Okay," Art turned off the television.
"I'll pick up some more beer."
Mike smiled. "That's okay, dad. I'll bring my own."