The Shoot (Part Nine)

“Maybe we should just call it a day,” Mike says.

“No,” Miranda says flatly. “We need more material.”

“It’s too dark to shoot now,” Mike says, raising a hand to the sky. “The sun’s been setting for the past hour.”

“It isn’t setting,” Miranda says as if she can reverse time through sheer tyranny of will. “It’s rising. We’ll run these shots at the beginning of the video and say it’s early in the morning.”

Mike has papers to grade. Amanda wants to be an artist again. Natalie and Drago are still up for anything despite the cold and the setting sun. They all look to me, and I point to a worn-out baseball I’ve been eyeing since we reached the bottom of the hill.

“What if we play some baseball?” I say, flipping my guitar over and swinging it like a bat. “Natalie throws the ball. I knock it into the outfield. It lands at Mike’s feet. Mike picks it up, and we all become friends.”

“Perfect!” Miranda says in shades of Ed Wood. “Marc, you stand in the batting place. Drago, you get behind him, and Natalie, you take the ball to the pitching thing and get ready to throw it.”

“Mound,” I say.


“Never mind.”

I’m not really trying to hit the ball with my guitar. Miranda will just try to perpetrate the illusion that I’ve hit the ball when she edits the video together. At least, that’s the plan as Drago and I take our places in a muddy batter’s box.

“There’s a big puddle here,” Drago says. “So don’t throw the ball directly at us. Try to throw it over that way.”

“Got it,” Natalie says, winding up for the pitch.

Then she throws it directly at us, hitting the center of the puddle with astounding accuracy.

“Can we do that again?” Miranda asks as Drago and I wipe the mud from our faces. “I wasn’t shooting.”

The second, Natalie doesn’t splash us with mud. I swing the guitar, and Drago tosses the ball into the outfield as if I’ve just hit it. When Mike picks up the ball, we all gather around him and start slapping him on the back.

With that, I imagine we’re done – and not a second too soon. It’s starting to get dark, and though it’s only in my imagination, the people who live across the street from the park are peering at us through half-parted curtains as they reach for their phones to call the police.

“Great work, guys,” I say. “I think we can call it a day!”

“Not quite.”

Curiously, it isn’t Miranda who wants to keep shooting this time around. It’s Mike. And though my instinct is remind him of the papers he has to grade, I keep my mouth shut and hear him out.

“See that tree over there?” Mike points in the direction of a fallen tree on the edge of the outfield. “It’s the perfect backdrop.”

He’s right. The branches arc up and over to form a small cave or a primitive shelter from the elements. It’s easy to imagine prehistoric hunter-gatherers finding it and setting up camp for the night – or breaking camp at dawn, however you want to look at it. In any case, if Mike’s on board, then so am I.

“Okay, team,” I say. “Let’s do it!”

But they’re already ahead of me, trudging through snow, slush, and mud to take their places in beneath the skeletal remains of the fallen tree. When I take place next to them, Miranda tells us all to start dancing. We’re having a great time, she says by way of direction before commanding each of us to strut toward the camera and look into it with our very best diva pouts.

“Keep dancing,” Miranda shouts when we’ve all finished with our close-ups. “And don’t forget—you’re all rock stars.”

In that moment, with the cars whizzing by in the distance and the good people of Henry Avenue watching us from the comfort of their homes beneath the blinking red lights of the radio towers above, I believe her. This is my band, and as the sun sets pink and orange over Roxborough, Miranda’s camera turns us all into rock stars.


Putting One Word After Another: An Interview with Joseph M. Schuster

Not too long ago, I mentioned that I stumbled upon a book by another SchusterThe Might Have Been by Joseph M. Schuster. Given the coincidence of our last names, idle curiosity drove me to read it. Once I picked it up, however, Schuster’s writing wouldn’t let me put the book down. Touching on baseball, life, dreams, disappointment, hope, tenacity, and the passage of time, The Might Have Been is the perfect summer read.

Almost immediately after I finished reading his novel, I had to drop the author a line to ask a few questions about the writing process — and he got back to me almost immediately. So he’s not just a great writer, but he’s also a hell of a guy. Must be something about the name!

Can you tell us a little bit about your novel and what inspired it?

The Might Have Been is about a character named Edward Everett Yates who, as the novel opens, is just getting the word that he’s been promoted to the major leagues, specifically to the St. Louis Cardinals, after ten years of bouncing around in the minors. Three weeks later, however, he suffers a devastating knee injury in a game, ending his season and the Cardinals release him. For a while he tries to live outside baseball but can’t let the game go and so he ends up back in it, in the minors again – and then, suddenly, it’s thirty years later and he’s still stuck in the low minors, managing a broken down team.

The novel started one day when I sat down to write after a sentence occurred to me that went something like, “The best summer of his life, he was twenty-four.” I don’t know where the sentence came from, but I thought that seemed a little sad – to have the best year of your life when you’re twenty-four would suggest your life didn’t go as you might have liked. (In revision, my character became 27.) I wondered, what kind of person might have such a life and I thought, well, an athlete. And since baseball is the sport I know best, he became a ballplayer in the second sentence.

For a long time, I’ve been fascinated with so-called cup-of-coffee players – ballplayers who get to the major leagues but stick it out for only a few games or a couple of weeks and then are gone – long enough for a metaphorical cup of coffee. To even reach the major leagues means that a player is amazing. I once read that only one out of every ten men who play minor league ball ever get to the major leagues, even for an inning. And the idea that someone would be that good but not be able to stick, just seems sad to me.

I have interviewed and written about quite a few ballplayers who are like that and so my main character is not so much based on any one of them but is an expression of my ideas of the lives that some of those players have had.

One player who struck me in particular was a guy named Glenn Gardner, who pitched in 17 games for the Cardinals in 1945, when he was 29, and then was back in the minor leagues the next season. He stuck it out in the minors for some years after that, ending up as a player-manager in a class-C team in the 1950s before he gave up baseball. He later became a bartender and he died in his 40s of cirrhosis. A few years ago, I went to the Baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown and spent a couple of days in their library, researching players like Gardner, and came across a letter his widow had written to a researcher back in the 1960s, after Gardner died. The researcher had contacted her to check on some facts about Gardner and in her reply, she asked if the Hall of Fame had any money for widows of former baseball players. She added, “which I could certainly use.” That letter opened up a world to me, a world of the consequences of the decisions we make when we’re younger and that affect our lives and the lives of others for years and decades later.

The Might Have Been begins in 1976 and takes readers to the present day. With such a sweeping timeline, was it difficult to decide what to leave in the narrative and what to take out? How did you decide? Did you leave anything on the cutting room floor, as it were?

I am a terribly sloppy writer when I am working on my first draft. I generally have no idea where I am going and so end up writing a lot that gets cut. To produce the 500-page finished first draft of the novel, something with a narrative that at least passes for coherent, I wrote probably 1,000 pages. For example, at one point, I wrote a fifty- sixty-page section that was about Edward Everett’s mother going to New York City to try to be a singer after she graduates from high school during the early 1940s. Before I decided that it would be about a character who could never get out of baseball, Edward Everett  was a sports editor for a weekly “throwaway.” I wrote I don’t know how many pages about a relationship that his mother had with the man who used to be their parish pastor but who left the priesthood after he fell in love with Edward Everett’s mother after she was widowed.

Getting from that very messy first draft to the finished novel took nine years and nine drafts – and I was making some pretty significant changes even in that ninth draft.

Baseball breaks the heart of your protagonist, Edward Everett Yates, on many occasions, yet he sticks with it. As I read the novel, I kept thinking about all of the writers I know, and how our dogged pursuit writing involves similar instances of heartbreak. Do you see a parallel between writing and baseball?

I see a parallel between baseball and pretty much everything we do in life but, yes, I see a parallel between writing and baseball. For a while, I tried to keep a blog (I stopped because I didn’t have the time to post regularly). I called it “Writing is Damn Hard” and it consists of entries about writing and many of them use some sort of analogy from sport; one specifically looks at baseball: The Eric Bruntlet School of Writing.

More than any other major sport, baseball mirrors life, since there are games every day in season, instead of only on Sunday or only a couple of days a week. Baseball, therefore, is a sport in which just showing up seems all the more important. Every time I go to a ballgame, I buy a scorecard and keep score, batter by batter, inning by inning, and one of the things that strikes me about those scorecards are all of the 4-3 or 6-3 ground outs – ground ball to second or shortstop. That’s how teams win ballgames – not so much by the plays that end up on the MLB Network or ESPN highlight shows – those are great and those are dramatic and they do influence a game – but more often, it’s just a shortstop or a second baseman just doing what he’s done a thousand times before – fielding the ground ball and throwing to first – that wins ballgames. And, as writers, that’s how we get our work done: showing up, putting one word after another after another, day after day after day.

Along similar lines, I was wondering if there´s any extent to which your own experiences as a writer—hopes, fears, heartbreaks, successes—informed your sense of Edward Everett´s emotional compass.

Honestly, yes, very much so. I’m older than the large majority of people who publish their first novel – I am a bit younger than Edward Everett, but not by too many years. That means that I am very much aware of choices I’ve made in my life and that my life is whatever it is because of those choices and because of chance and accident. I happen to like my life, even though it’s different than I imagined it would be when I was 18, but I have seen far too many people who are my age or a bit older who are unhappy, full of regret, and even bitter about how their lives have turned out. I remember a few years ago I was in the locker room for the gym at the school where I teach, changing to do a workout. I ran into a colleague who was in his late 60s or maybe he was even 70 and he was retiring that year after thirty-something years on the faculty. I didn’t know him well – we were friendly but certainly not friends; we’d probably never had a conversation that was more than a few sentences and most of our encounters were the polite, “Hi, how are you” variety. So it surprised me when he looked up to see me coming into the locker room, where he was changing after doing his own workout, sat down on the bench, shook his head, and said, “I never meant to stay here this long. I thought I’d be here for two years and then move on somewhere else.” His Ph.D. was from an Ivy League school and Webster University is a good school but it’s not an Ivy League institution.

The fact that we didn’t have the sort of relationship in which he’d ordinarily admit something like that to me suggested even more the depth of his regret. And, while my novel is about a baseball player, it’s just as much about that moment that many people have when they reach a certain point in life and think about where they were when they were young, what they wanted, and how things have turned out.

At one point, my novel makes a 30-year leap, between the end of one section and the beginning of the next, and I did that for a reason – the fact that on one page it’s 1977 and on the next it’s 2009 – to capture that feeling that many people have of shock when they realize that suddenly thirty years have passed and this is where they are, whether it was how they intended to be on the front side of those thirty years.

Edward Everett´s vast body of experience—at one point he calculates that he´s logged over 10,000 hours of game time-allows him to serve as an effective mentor for many young ball players. Do you have any advice for writers who are just venturing into the writing game?

At one point in my novel, I talk a little bit about cliches that baseball players use when sportswriters interview them – you play them one game at a time; if you have a bad game, you have to leave it behind and not let it affect your next game, etc. – and Edward

Everett thinks about how his players have to learn that the reason the cliches are the cliches is that there is truth in them – that there’s a reason cliches become cliches.

I believe that, though I don’t want to suggest we should write in cliches, and so what I am going to say may sound as if I am only spouting what other people have said but I really do believe these things:

1. Show up every day, sit down to write and keep your butt in the chair. Set a quota for yourself and work until you meet it. For most of the time I was writing my novel, I had a quota of 1,500 words a day and I wasn’t allowed to stop writing until I reached 1,500 words. On some days, that was a couple of hours and on others, it was seven or eight or ten hours. But you can’t finish anything if you don’t sit down and if you don’t keep working.

2. Write what moves you, write stories that you think are important or that you think are interesting. It’s hard enough to write and you have no guarantee that anyone will publish what you write and so if you’re not enjoying it or if you’re not finding it worthwhile, what’s the point?

3. Write not knowing where you’re going. I find that if I know exactly where I want to end up when I write my first sentence, what I write will be dead dead dead. If I am not discovering something as I go, it won’t go very far and it won’t be interesting to the reader.

4. Write more and submit less and revise revise revise. I know it’s wonderful to publish something but I think too many writers send out their work before it’s as good as they can make it. This is particularly true if you’re working on a book. It’s hard to write a novel and so it doesn’t make sense not to make it as good as you possibly can. It’s also harder to sell a novel and so even for commercial reasons it doesn’t make sense not to make a novel as good as you can make it before you try to send it out. If you send out a manuscript before it’s polished, you end up closing doors, rather than opening them. If you send a manuscript to an agent or an editor before it’s ready, and they say “no,” you can’t contact them six months later and say, “Do you remember that novel you rejected back in May? Well, it’s better now.” They’re not going to be willing to read it.