Dennis was throwing a Spaldeen High Bouncer against the factory wall, imagining he was pitching for the Baltimore Orioles. His invisible opponents were the New York Yankees, who, thanks to his excellent imagination, were the best Yankee players from the 1920s through the end of the twentieth century. He knew his baseball history. On the wall was a chalk outline that formed a near perfect strike zone any umpire could use to call balls and strikes.

The wall wasn’t an entirely smooth surface, which made the game more fun for the eleven-year-old. If the high bouncer landed just right it could carom off the wall and travel quite a distance on the ground, or in the air. Dennis used his judgement to decide whether the batter had hit a routine fly ball, or if it hit the front of his brownstone apartment, a double. Not often, but once in a while the ball hit a sharp edge on the wall and traveled far enough to be a homerun.     

That afternoon, Dennis was pitching a perfect game, no runs, no hits, no errors. In the bottom of the sixth, he quickly retired Derek Jeter and Joe DiMaggio, striking both men out. Mickey Mantle hit a lazy fly ball that his imaginary right fielder snagged without having to move. As the bottom of the seventh inning approached he could feel the beads of perspiration forming on his forehead as he contemplated the enormity of what he was trying to do. He tugged at his Oriole ballcap trying to keep the sun out of his eyes. 

He took a drink of water and looked toward the batter’s box ready to go. He was startled to see a rather rotund man with skinny legs, who looked to be about 60, standing in front of the strike zone and smiling at him. “I didn’t know kids still did this sort of thing,” He said. Dennis just shrugged, hoping he would go away. “I used to throw against this very same wall. Course it was a necktie factory then. Long time ago.”

Dennis stood there, not sure of what to do. He glanced back at the second floor living room window hoping his mother was there. She wasn’t. He turned back to the man. He was still smiling.

“Name’s George. What’s your’s kid?”

“Dennis. You’re kind of in my way, sorry.”

The man looked behind him at the wall. “Standing right on home plate I see.” He took a step to his right and took a left-handed batter’s stance. “When I was a kid one of my buddies would stand here just like this. Made it feel like I was really pitching to somebody. I can do that for you.”

Again, Dennis looked up toward the window. “Nah, that’s ok,” He said.

“Are ya chicken? Is that your bat leaning on the stoop? Let me have it.”

Dennis did as he was told. He picked up the bat and brought it over to the man. As he took the bat the man said, “You live in that apartment house right behind you? That’s where I lived when I was your age.” The boy didn’t answer him. “Ok Dennis, just go back there and start pitching. Show me what you got.” 

Dennis went back to his spot, casting one more, quick glance at his apartment window. He turned, looked in at the batter’s box, pretending to get a sign from the catcher. Fastball. He wound up and threw it. To his surprise the old man actually took a swing at the ball, spinning himself around in the process. “Strike one!” George yelled, laughing.

Dennis didn’t actually know how to throw a curveball, but he liked to pretend. He threw the ball wide of the box and it hit a crevice, sending it bouncing toward what would be a routine grounder to the first baseman. He wanted to tell George that, but the man was still standing in the batter’s box waiting for the next pitch. He threw him another fastball right down the middle for a strike.

“Good pitch. The count is one and two now.” He wagged his bat and took his stance. Just then a patrol car drove up the street, moving slowly. George and Dennis saw it at the same time. “Damn it,” George said. It wasn’t the first time Dennis heard the word, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to say it. The patrol car stopped in the middle of the street and the patrolman got out. He pointed at the man and said, “Don’t move, George.”

“Let the kid throw me one more pitch, Stan. I’ll go quietly.”

“Okay with you?” The officer asked Dennis.

“Sure.” He walked back to his spot and looked in for the imaginary sign. George’s bat was still this time. He threw his best fastball. The old man swung and connected, hitting the Spaldeen High Bouncer over the house for a homerun.

George dropped his bat and smiled. He waved to Dennis and said, “Don’t feel bad, kid. I was the home run champ on this block every year.” He walked to the patrol car and got into the back seat. The car sped off, seeming to disappear.

Dennis stood there, his perfect game broken up. Who’s turn had it been to bat? He smiled. Babe Ruth.