Has Anyone Seen Second Base?

Pardon me, but have you by any chance seen second base? It can usually be found over in that large patch of dirt, but I seem to have mislaid it. Second base. It’s the second of the bases. I could have sworn I left it right there. Amid the dirt. You turn your back for one second. Maybe I should retrace my steps. Here’s what happened.

It was the bottom of the ninth. One out, runners on first and second. Fernando Tatis Jr. came to the plate. That’s the white pentagon in the ground over there. When a strapping slugger comes to the plate, I have to take a walk. Out of respect for his prodigious power, I bid farewell to my traditional post alongside third base and I sojourn a half dozen steps in a northerly direction, toward the outfield. Sometimes I carry a generous scoop of trail mix in my back pocket for such journeys. Tonight I went without, and maybe that’s what did me in. Low blood sugar can wreak havoc on your sense of direction.

Anyhow, I traveled north-northeast toward the left fielder. That’s my colleague, Randy. When he wants to show you that he’s happy, he crosses his arms and scowls as if he’s angry. When he’s angry, he scowls but doesn’t cross his arms. It’s confusing until you get used to it. I traipsed all the way over toward Randy, and then wouldn’t you know it, that pesky Tatis hit a nice soft chopper back to my right. I had been standing in the right place all along! I swiveled with the quickness of a cat. Crouching like a tiger on the prowl, I crept in and toward the third base line. Gracefully as a lynx, I secured the bouncing ball. Ferociously as a panther, I pivoted and heaved it to second base. Or so I thought. Second base had vanished like an elusive snow leopard. My throw sailed into the night.

I suppose you could argue that I only threw to where I thought second base to be, that all the twisty-turnies had a deleterious effect on my internal compass, causing me to throw wildly into the night, that the base is around here somewhere and I’ve just been looking in the wrong direction this whole time. But that strikes me as unlikely. More importantly, it would be unprofessional to entertain such a thought. A good infielder always trusts their internal compass. It’s just one of the tools you have to keep honed to a fine point in order to play at this level.

You need a clock in your head so you know how much time you have to catch the runner, a compass in your head to know where all the bases are, a barometer in your head to know how the dew point of the grass will affect a bouncing ball, a calorimeter in your head to make sure you don’t overdo it on the trail mix, and an alethiometer in your head to ask the Dust what’s really going on. I suppose these days, you could just get rid of all the clutter and keep a smartphone in your head, but the point remains. It’s less likely that I completely lost second base and threw the ball directly to the middle of nowhere than it is that second base simply disappeared entirely.

With no destination to speak of, my throw skipped joyously across the springy grass for what felt like an eternity. What I wouldn’t give to feel that free for even a moment.

I looked down at my hand. “Do you have any idea where second base went?” I asked it. It said nothing. That about brings us up to the present. I queried my hand just a moment ago. Still no reply. Here I stand, wondering what happened to second base. Maybe you can help me find it.

Would it help if I were to describe it? Physical characteristics: It’s a big white square on the ground. I guess technically it’s a cuboid, say, two inches tall and 18 inches to a side. Slightly domed. Cryptic markings on the top. It’s composed of a tough rubbery composite. Very sturdy. It would honestly make a great murder weapon, should things take a turn. It’d be a bit unwieldy, but that’s how it goes when things take a turn. You can’t always be a Picky Ricky about your bludgeons.

Metaphysical characteristics: I suppose you could argue that second base is the axis around which the game revolves. The beating heart of the playing field. A minor fortress standing resolute against outfield encroachment and the unrelenting waves of time that seek to smooth our sharp edges. Second base is the cusp. The launchpad for the flanking run from scoring position to scoring. The rally point at which the numbers really start to count, especially if you need to complain about Juan Soto. Have you seen anything that matches that description? White, cuboid, beating-axis-fortress-cusp-heart?

A man spray-paints it eggshell white and then stabs it into a big hole in the ground before the game. Another man takes it away after the top of the fourth inning and stabs a fresh replacement into the ground. Actually, it may well be the same man. I’m just now realizing how little I know about the person or persons who paint and stab the bases. Wait, could that be it? Did the man forget to replace the base? That’s a strong working theory. I certainly wouldn’t have noticed if it disappeared for five innings or so. When was the last time I saw it?

You know what? I was standing right on it, and it can’t have been more than an hour ago. I took a walk, and then my friend Josh hit a single that allowed me to jog over and stand directly on the base. Josh and I were working out of Arizona before this. He was transferred out here to Seattle a week before I was. “I guess you’ll have to trade your parasol for an umbrella,” I kidded him. He laughed, but I could tell he was only being polite. Umbrella humor isn’t for everyone. Anyway, Josh moved me over to second. I was right there. I think I even have a picture.

Hmm. It’s a little blurrier than I remember it, but that’s definitely me standing on second base.

That was only an hour ago, but a lot has happened since then. I scored. Josh scored. My friend Mitch scored. His friend Jorge scored. Mitch and Jorge worked together in Minneapolis before this. Apparently, Mitch’s high school friends call him Garv Sauce. That doesn’t sound very appealing to me. If you served me some fries with a side of Garv Sauce, I think I’d lose my appetite. Wait, that was in the bottom of the fifth, so the man had already come back and put the base back in. There goes that theory.

I suppose it’s possible my aim wasn’t perfectly true. I mean, I really felt like I nailed the throw, but I did have to execute those furious half-turns at high velocity right before I let the ball go. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’m still a little dizzy. I could really use that trail mix. Maybe it’s time to put a gyroscope in my head too. But I don’t think I could have gotten so turned around as to lose sight of second base entirely. It seems much more likely that the base just disappeared.

Maybe it was swallowed by a sinkhole. Or a speeding baserunner trampled it with such force that it was pushed deep into the earth and the surrounding dirt fell into the resulting hole and covered it up. Or they pushed off the corner with so much angular velocity that it spun and spun until it rose off the ground like a gyrocopter and floated out into the bay. The theories are really coming to me now. Perhaps an intense slide showered it with so much dirt that it’s still out there but perfectly camouflaged. That’s got to be it. If you see it, let me know.