The Santa Clarita heat shimmered off the pavement as Anthony, known to everyone as “Meatball,” for his mother always having a large pot of sauce with meatballs simmering on the stovetop, led his crew down the steep winding suburban sidewalks. They wore their backward caps and worn-out Vans, carving their way down to an empty baseball field. Meatball held a jumbo tub of Red Vines under one arm, with a aluminum bat and glove in the other. “The field’s gonna be empty today, I can feel it,” Meatball shouted over the roar of their wheels. With his buddies right on his heels, Carmine and Pauly zoomed along on their longboards, side by side, while Mikey kept up the pace, balancing a bat on his shoulder and a can of Monster Energy in his hand. They were fueled by sugar and the promise of a Saturday double-header.
But as they crested the hill overlooking their diamond, Meatball skidded to a halt, his wheels screeching against the asphalt. “Who are these guys?” Meatball grunted. The infield was occupied by a dozen boys wearing bright neon jerseys, and they weren’t playing baseball. They altered the field, driving wooden stakes or wickets, into the dirt where the pitcher’s mound and home plate should be. A boy was sprinting toward the wickets, flinging a ball with a stiff-armed motion. This looked completely alien to the California crew.
“Yo! This is a baseball field, not a Renaissance fair!” Meatball shouted, hopping off his board. “What are you doing with those flat paddles?” The boy bowling the ball, Arjun, stopped and wiped sweat from his forehead. “It’s called cricket. And we’re local. We moved into the cul-de-sac last week.”
“Cricket?” Mikey asked, cracking open a Monster. “Is that the game that takes four days to play while you drink slushees? You look like you’re trying to swat flies with a 2×4.”
“And what’s with the white pants?” Pauly added, gesturing to their uniforms. “You guys headed to a wedding or a convenience store shift after this?”
Arjun’s team didn’t flinch. Arjun retorted. “You baseball guys just sit in a dugout spitting sunflower seeds on the ground, and wait to hit a ball once every 20 minutes.” The groups traded barbs in a similar fashion until the Santa Clarita lights flickered on across the valley, they were at an impasse and went home for the night.
That evening, the dinner tables in Santa Clarita were battlegrounds. Meatball and his crew told their parents about the “flat-bat invaders,” while Arjun explained to his parents that the “skater boys” thought they owned the sidewalks and public parks. However, Santa Clarita is a small world. Meatball’s dad and Arjun’s father happened to be friends and work at the same law firm in downtown Los Angeles. After a few phone calls and many laughs over the “Great Field Wars,” the parents hatched a plan to bring peace and reconciliation to the two groups: The SCV Hybrid Open.
The following Saturday, the families met at the ball field. The rules were a chaotic, beautiful mess. Each team played four innings of baseball and ten “overs” of cricket. It turned into a comedy of errors. Meatball tried to bowl a cricket ball and nearly took out a bird in a nearby tree. Arjun tried to slide into second base and ended up with a mouthful of California dust. But as the afternoon wore on, the mocking turned into genuine friendship between the boys and their families.
“Dude, you hit Meatball’s 60-mph heater with a paddle!” Mikey yelled, high-fiving Arjun.
“And Meatball,” Arjun laughed, “I’ve never seen anyone catch a cricket ball bare-handed without screaming.”
When the “tournament” ended in a diplomatic tie, another tradition began. The families and their children spread out blankets across the outfield. The California boys broke out the Red Vines, teaching the newcomers the “Red Vine Straw” trick. Meatball’s mom brought a tray of lasagna and another filled with homemade sauce and meatballs. In return, Arjun’s mom brought Spicy Samosas. Carmine took a bite of a spicy potato-filled pastry and washed it down with a sip of Mango Lassi. “OK,” he admitted, “This beats a Dodger Dog. But you’re still not getting the field on Tuesdays.”
Arjun laughed, “Deal. Tuesdays are for baseball. But Wednesdays? You’re learning how to bowl a ‘googly’.”
From that day forward, the boys remained friends and the sound of bats cracking and flat paddles whacking became Santa Clarita’s newest soundtrack.
Anthony N. Cervello
Canyon Country.
