(talk)

Some of my former imaginary friends and enemies could speak. They had squeaky voices from dry air, insensitivity toward my feelings, and clouds of confusion in their auras, mostly because they didn’t know who they were. Lazy summer afternoons were spent lofting baseballs toward Old Blindy the ump and Misser the catcher. Mom thought I was practising my curveball against the shed door, but it was Dodger Stadium. Occasionally Candlestick. Yankee Stadium was down by the pig sty. The three of us never went to that disgrace of a place. If my cousin the brainless yappy Yankee fan ever came by and heard us, I’d never hear the end of it.
I liked Misser. He never caught the ball, but he’d argue for me with that cantankerous ump, who’d never give me a break on His strike zone. As I walked in from the precise Little League 46 feet, they’d start in on each other.
“That last one caught the corner, and you know it!” Misser would holler, kicking his foot in the dirt, formerly grass, but worn thin by passed balls.
“I call ‘em as I see ‘em, Kid!” Blindy would retort. “I’m not standin’ here just to get yelled at by some impudent brat!”
“The one before that was the exact same pitch, and you called that one a strike!” insisted Misser, whilst spitting brown smudge towards the trees.
“It was a quarter of an inch lower. Do you think I’m blind?”
Misser’s voice would lower to a mumble for fear of being tossed. “And you wonder why I keep missing all these balls. I hope your shins are payin’ for it.”
“They miss me too, you silly kid.” Then the old man would turn around. “Don’t you see all these bruised boards on the shed back here?”
As I gathered the 6 worn balls, I’d shake my head at them sympathetically. Six more pitches, and they’d be at it again.