Story #10: "The Knuckleball Artist" (Chapter 12)

A broken radio, a boa constrictor, "Can't Score Number Four," "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," a juice cooler lid, Dr. Baseball, and perfect white teeth.

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CHAPTER 12

AN ACCIDENTAL FEEL FOR COACHING

For the next two games, neither Phineas nor Reginald brought up the canceled knuckleball lessons, but the car rides got very quiet, and the long stops at the town’s notoriously slow stop light seemed to last forever.

Every ride, there and back, Reginald grumbled under his breath that Phineas was humming “too loud and rudely,” and Reginald tapped his long fingers on the steering wheel “in a very annoying way" according to Phineas.

I’m no great student of human nature, but the disaster unfolding in the front seat somehow connected to the disaster unfolding on the field, and you don’t need to be a rocket scientist to understand The Boil “making things easier” had lead to catastrophe for Reginald.

The Cougars promptly lost “It’s Three Now, Count ‘Em,” then they forfeited a rainout for reasons too complicated to get into — other than the fact it was “100 and a half percent the coach’s fault.”

And after every one of these dramatic conclusions, Phineas went to turn the broken car radio off, and made the same observation.

“Your radio is broken.”

(Now, it did so happen to be broken, but not in the way Reginald thought. We’ll come to the radio after we get to Reginald’s special beer.)

Fact was, with the “easier is harder” curse, Reginald could barely think in the dugout. The yips wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. They took over his coaching. The walk to the mound became an agony. He had sluggers bunt, forgot his own signals, and after “Can’t Score Number Four,” the muffler blew on the Sleepmobile. The whole town heard The Yipper coming and going. Kids cheered him from the sidewalk.

After “That’s Great! Five Straight!” Phineas started up with coaching advice.

Every time the kid got up to go to the juice cooler, Reginald felt it coming on. With “Oh, No, Six in a Row” Reginald cracked.

“Alright, that’s enough, Phineas. Sit over there and don’t move.” He was pointing to the far end of the dugout.

At the time, the kid was struggling to lift the lid off of the giant dugout cooler so he could pour the last of the juice into his cup.

“Fine, I won’t help you. I’ll quietly critique… but only afterwards.”

The orange top came off and spilled all over him. He pretended not to notice and continued.

“Do as I say, not as you did.”

“Nope” became the mantra from the end of the dugout where Reginald had banished him.

“Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.” He sang this to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” He conducted the song with the hand that wasn’t holding his juice.

By the time they’d lost six in a row, Phineas started mumbling and throwing cups on the dugout floor. He was like a frustrated big-league manager, prattling on about pacing the bullpen, the late-inning suicide squeeze, and catcher framing, not to mention the “easy stuff, Dr. Baseball,” like calling hit-and-runs, and tag-up signals.

As fast as he drank juice and ran off to pee, the texts poured in:

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope 🎶🎶 ⚾️

Even when Reginald put him in the field for his six mandatory defensive outs, Phineas still spent half the time texting the coach from the outfield on what Reginald had just done wrong, including batting him during the wrong inning. Nothing is worse than getting in an argument with someone who’s totally wrong and then turns out to be accidentally right.

The other fact was Phineas actually might have been right about everything.

“Might have been right.” Reginald muttered to himself. He was sitting alone in the bleachers after the automatic field lights turned off.

“I didn’t say ‘yes, he was right.’”

Although Phineas was the worst baseball player he’d ever set eyes on, Reginald had to admit the kid had a sort of “accidental feel” for coaching baseball.

He was an encyclopedia of strategies and forgotten rules. “To be crystal clear,” Reginald consoled himself, “the kid’s softer skills like ‘teamwork’ and ‘player motivation’ would be considered well below average.”

When he dropped Phineas off at the house after “Excruciating Loss Number Seven,” The Boil waved from the attic workout room pantomiming driving the Sleepmobile with the wind in his hair.

Even from the bottom of the driveway, The Boil’s perfect white teeth sparkled in a disagreeable way. You can have teeth that are too white.

Phineas got out of the car, and smacked his palm into his forehead so pretend-hard he spun his head around.

Yes, the knuckleball lessons were definitely canceled, and nothing could have been easier than restarting them. Unless, of course, when easier is harder for you.

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