The Mendoza Line

BY JOHN MANDERINO

Mom told me to quit making the sign of the cross before stepping into the batter’s box. “If you’re that afraid of getting hit by the pitch, you shouldn’t be playing.”

I told her that wasn’t why I did it. “It’s for good luck.”

She said that was worse. “ e sign of the cross isn’t for good luck—it’s for praying, and if you want to pray for something, pray for your grandmother,” she said, choking up a little.

Gram was in Maine Medical, dying. She was about a hundred and y years old, so it didn’t seem all that tragic. Plus you see players on TV making the sign of the cross all the time, and it’s not for their grandmother—it’s for help in getting a hit, and when it works they point up towards Jesus, mouthing, “ ank you.”

So far I didn’t have any reason to do the thanking part. In fact, since turning to Jesus I hadn’t got a hit in eight trips to the plate. It was getting near the end of the season and my batting average was just above 200, right on the Mendoza Line: the threshold below which a player’s presence on a baseball team cannot be justi ed regardless of his defensive skills. And I didn’t even have any defensive skills. Which was why I was out in right eld for my three innings each game.

But I could quit making the sign of the cross as I came to bat if it was going to give Mom a conniption. I started asking Jesus (not out loud of course), “Help me out, Lord—little bloop single, that’s all.”

But I guess Jesus agreed with Mom about asking for His help in a baseball game while my own grandmother was in the hospital dying. So I started asking Him to help her get better. Stepping into the batter’s box, I said to Him, “Please help Gram, Lord. Don’t let her die. I love her so much,” hoping He would try and cheer me up with a base hit.

But you can’t fool Jesus.

By now my batting average had sunk to exactly 200, below which a player’s presence on a baseball team cannot be justi ed. ere was one game le to go in the season. We were playing this team we were tied with for last place: the Shop-a-Lot Black Bears. We were the Mainely Mu ers Chickadees, the chickadee being the state bird, but let’s face it: not a good match, a bird against a bear. ere happened to be a summer u going around, so we only had nine guys show up, which meant I would have at least three chances to li my batting average above two hundred. I gured it out: all I needed was one hit—go one for three—to make me seven for thirty-three for the season, which comes to 212.

Nobody would know if I nished above or below the Mendoza Line (we didn’t keep batting stats), but I would know, and if I nished below, I wouldn’t come back. I was fourteen, so I had another year in the league, but if my presence on the team could not be justi ed, I’d play badminton in the backyard with my sister Meredith.

My rst time at bat, I didn’t say anything to Jesus—not a word. Sometimes I felt like he was possibly working against me, so I just went up there and struck out and came back to the dugout without a hello or goodbye. Now I was below the Mendoza Line.

Next time up, I didn’t say anything again, and at least I made contact, popping out to rst base, but now I was further below the Line.

My third and nal at-bat was in the bottom of the last inning: two outs, nobody on, down by a run, everyone in the dugout hollering at me to come through, our manager Mr. Carlson yelling “Be selective,” meaning