TOM ROTHENWANDER, CENTER FIELD: Right. Well, you know I’m superstitious. Everybody knows I’m superstitious. The Team. All the other teams. Reporters. Front office-ii. And not just “baseball superstitious.” Like: I’m fucking crazy! [Seven second delay to take care of that, producer says.] Everybody knows it. They all know it. I’ve come to terms with it. If anything, the rep helps me, a little bit, at least. People don’t know what to expect and when they don’t know what to expect, they don’t expect much, right? You seeing that streak in the sky right now? [He points towards nothingness, afternoon-blue endlessness.] Don’t see it? Look again. Above the Forest Lawn ad. Left of Firestone. It’s there. [Just boundless, incalculable sky, most notable for its lack of—well, everything. (It is especially beautiful today, though.)] I didn’t like that they were doing these interviews. I mean, during the game? Come on. Wires running out my ass. Come on! Why is everything like that now? During the game. Come on. In fact—[he moves toward the bulleting ball, lined up by Lance McHenretty III, heading just beyond the infield. Calls out for it. Moving faster than most animals, let’s say. Catches the ball like it’s meaningless. Tosses it to the first base coach. Tosses it like he’s saying, Fuck This Ball. He returns to the middle, center field’s dead center, closer up than most guys stand (he likes to chat with second base, action permitting).]—OK, one out. What was I saying?
REPORTER: That you don’t like doing these interviews.
TOM: Yeah. I don’t. But MLB’ll fine my Tyler, TX-ass if I don’t, ahh, play ball, haha. No offense.
REPORTER: Trust me, Tom, I’ve heard it all.
TOM: I can’t believe you didn’t see that. In the sky.
REPORTER: Describe it for the viewers at home, Tom.
TOM: Why? They can see it. It’s still there.
REPORTER: Describe it for me, then, Tom.
TOM: Hold up. Ronnie there might send it straight to me. [Ron Crawford, sixth in the order, strikes out.] OK, maybe not. Well, the streak. It’s kind of like an old movie. You ever see old movies?
REPORTER: Yeah. Lots.
TOM: I don’t mean at home on TV.
REPORTER: Less often, then.
TOM: You see an old movie in a theater, and I mean not a restoration or anything, no effing digital, I mean a film print that’s old as hell, 35mm, and there’s all these pressure lines on them. Some of them. Some are preserved better, like by the freaking Academy? Or, like, MoMA? UCLA? But I kind of like the look of the junky ones, old ones, and also just old Technicolor movies in general. And these lines, from light leaks and static electricity and decades of pressure, just straight or almost-straight lines down the screen, little black lines, or sometimes they’re blue, or yellow. That’s what I saw. But it was black.
REPORTER: Do you think it means something, Tom, if you don’t mind my asking?
TOM: No no, I hoped you would. It could mean a lot of things. Could mean nothing but it could mean a lot of things. You ever seen a giraffe give birth? They start out pretty tall. Do you visit the tombs of your dead friends and relatives? I can’t bear to. Because it isn’t for them, it’s for us. If they want to talk to us, they talk to us. Doesn’t matter where you are. Like echolocation or something. Cemeteries are selfishness writ green and large. Do the dead live in the sky? I think they do. If anything, I hope you don’t have dead friends or relatives. I’m sure you do, but I hope you don’t. Would make it a lot easier, this life. Imagine me out here. No dead friends, no dead relatives, and I’m out here. I’m so totally alone, but also, I’m lucky. All there'd be for me to do is focus on the game. But I’m not complaining—if my mind didn’t wander, I don’t think I could execute. I’m sure you hear the fucking opposite from everyone. Which is dumb of them! You’re thinking only about this, then you’re thinking about nothing. And one day you can’t do it anymore. You just can’t. But not me. I’ll be at this until my legs fall off. Willing and able. You’re probably thinking I’m a psycho. That’s all right, everybody does. You know about ley lines? Like in Nazca? Invisible rivers of energy pure. One runs under the stadium, following the path of an ancient, dried-up, subterranean riverbed. Sometimes the lines in the sky, I think they’re reminding us what’s down there beneath our cleats. And if the dead can talk to us, the Earth probably can, too. Sometimes I think about giraffes playing in the outfield. They’re taller than all of us! They could stop some crazy velocities just by prancing around. I’d pay to see that. Also, the field would make a better enclosure than the Zoo’s. You seen the giraffe paddock there? Small as hell. It’s sad to me. Up in the sky there, there is equanimity. The sky version of it. Just look up there. A movie you can watch anytime. Slow movie, sure, but it’s there. People forget that. I pickle last year’s glove and then throughout the season I eat it, little piece by little piece. Did you know that? Don’t think I’ve told anyone that before, outside my team. By team, I mean my personal team, my agent, my publicist. Not these guys. [He fans his throwing arm out toward the infield.] I do it every year. Done it for like ten seasons. I absorb the movement. Hands feeding hands. I do think that the line beneath us runs exactly straight through the field. Straight through center. I stand on it for like half the year. It’s got to count for something. [He catches another pop-up, doesn’t have to take a single step to do so.] That out two or three?
