Control (Songs of Submission #4)(13)

The noise got even louder. I found my buckles and strap. Jonathan helped me click in, then he took my hand. Seconds later, I felt as if I was being launched from a rocket. Larry turned a wooden steering wheel set between his seat and Rango’s.

“I’ll have the game on,” Rango chimed in. “We’re in the bottom of the fourth against the New York Yankees. Cashen is pitching for the Yanks as we speak.”

I closed my eyes and heard Jonathan’s voice. “Open your eyes. These flights are hard to get, even for me.”

I opened them and looked at him in the darkened cabin. He touched my cheek and smiled, and I felt protected and secure. Even if it was an illusion, knowing he was there made me feel less like I was shooting out a cannon and more like I was on a fun trip I wouldn’t have dreamed up for myself.

The city spread beneath us in a blanket of lights made of a plaid of streets, freeways, and floodlit parks. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. We were low enough to see cars and people but high enough to turn them into dots of velocity and intention. Everyone was headed somewhere, and we were above, passing in the wind.

The game wasn’t going well for my team. I listened without discussion as another inning went by with three men stranded on base, a pitcher who threw balls that were fouled off until I knew he must be exhausted, and a beaner that may have left star hitter Jose Inuego with a concussion.

I felt Jonathan leaning over me to see the window. He rested his chin on my shoulder, then his lips landed on my neck. Leaning there, we looked out the window together. The gondola chilled as the minutes went by, and though we had jackets, I put my hand on his and found his fingers icy. I moved one of his hands between my knees to warm it and folded the other in mine. We stayed like that, looking out the window, his chest to my back, his chin on my neck, and his hands warmed by my body, until I saw Elysian Park. I probably could have picked my house out from there.

“Look!” I sounded like a kid. “I can see it!”

It seemed to take as long to get over the stadium from the moment I saw it as it took for us to get to Los Angeles from Carson. Another blimp passed us, heading away from the game. Larry and Rango waved at the pilots. I was filled with contentment and a feeling of rightness, of being a part of something bigger than myself. I’d only felt that during orchestra practice in college, and only when everything was going right. The percussionist was spot on, the conductor spoke in a manual language as easy to understand as the written word, and we all followed as if lifted by the same tide.

As the feeling slipped away, I wanted nothing more than to recapture it. I pulled my headphones off and faced Jonathan. His eyes were visible from the lights on the pilot’s dashboard. He pulled his microphone out of the way. I kissed him, and I didn’t care who saw. I molded my lips to his and fed him my tongue. He took his hand from between my knees and put it to my cheek, warmed from my body, gentle to the touch. I extended that feeling of rightness for another minute until the gondola seemed to blaze with light.

I opened my eyes. We were right over the stadium. I took one last look at Jonathan and mouthed the words, Sure thing.

He mouthed back, I know, and I smiled.

I’d never seen a game like that before, and I found it disconcerting initially. I was used to television, where I could see every twitch and nod of the pitcher, and live games from the bleachers, where I could tell the direction of the ball from the sound it made coming off the bat. From the blimp, the players looked like white flowers on a perfect lawn.

I put my headphones back on and leaned into the window. The announcer was going on about pitch counts and men on base, and I heard the guys in the gondola doing much the same. The Yanks were up. Men on first and third. One out. Harvey Rodriguez was on deck.

Larry cut the engine, and the noise reduced. “We’re gonna hover until a commercial, then fire it up again.”

Jonathan put his lips to my ear. “Rodriguez is a lefty. They’re going for a double play. Watch the infield.” The shortstop and third baseman took two steps toward first. “They step toward right field because a lefty pulls that way, and forward to get the ball on the jump so they can pop it to second on the force play. And they’re playing it a little forward because there’s a guy on third who can go for the steal on a wild pitch or a sac fly.”

“But what if the fly is shallow? They’ll miss it, and it’ll be a mess. The outfield just came in a little, too. I mean, Rodriguez barely has to work to sac a guy in.”

“You take your chances. They’re down by two, so if a guy strolls home on a sac fly, it’s a bummer, but there’s not much difference in the middle of the game between being down two and down three. There’s more to gain with the double play.”

Rodriguez walked. Bases were loaded. Some moments in a ball game were more important than others. They weren’t the grand slams or the fat, bobbling errors at shortstop. They were the bases-loaded, one-man-out moments where either someone scored or someone was stopped dead. They were unpredictable, uncontrollable, and oftentimes silent as death. Like the one extra foul ball that would have been a third strike. Or the pitcher catching the line drive that would have sent a man or two home. Or a walk to load the bases.

“I can’t watch.” I covered my eyes. I couldn’t see anything from up there anyway. I just saw dots move around and heard the broadcast. But Jonathan reached from behind me and took my wrists, pulling them down.