Have you ever met Jerry Bittersmith, the cranky, middle-aged baseball nut who wears the Madison Coyote’s jersey to every double-header? He sits right behind the home dugout – row 13, seat J – in the section littered with chewed sunflower
Have you ever met Jerry Bittersmith, the cranky, middle-aged baseball nut who wears the Madison Coyote’s jersey to every double-header?
He sits right behind the home dugout – row 13, seat J – in the section littered with chewed sunflower seeds, empty Budweiser bottles and a sticky substance which Fox Moulder and the FBI’s X-Files division have yet to identify.
“Scary Jerry” is what most people call him, and although they know he is a respectable accountant with three children, a house, a car, and a “Jesus saves” bumper sticker on the back of his minivan, they only see the Bittersmith who comes to the ballpark every Tuesdays and Saturdays: the spitefull, malevolent man in the Coyote’s jersey who can’t seem to enjoy a sunny afternoon at the ballpark.
You’d think Jerry actually played baseball, even if he hadn’t caught a pop-fly since the Donna Reed show debuted on network television.
He looked at every game as if it was a life or death situation. At least, he acted like it. He became agitated when the Coyote’s weren’t hitting, when the right-fielder dropped the ball or when the pitcher threw a fastball down the middle with an 0-2 count.
“Are you nuts!” he would yell, his neck veins popping out like a smooshed tomato. “Where did you learn to play baseball, Bill Buckner’s School for Fielding?”
At 12-years of age, the Coyote players and fans didn’t know what to make of Bittersmith. Especially his son, the team’s second-baseman, who’s face turned cherry red every time he heard his dad squaking from the sidelines.
“I feel sorry for poor Billy,” said one onlooker,” who watched as Bittersmith’s son stood awkwardly beside the second-base bag. “He must get a lickin’ at home.”
Jerry never abused his kids. Actually, he was a good father, a good husband, and was respected in the workplace. But his actions on the baseball field told a different story, and he looked like a boozer and a loser to the community who came out to watch the games.
And to a degree, he was.
A war wages in Gaza, people are starving in Ethiopia and Venezuela has been over-run by a military stronghold, yet Jerry is fuming over an umpire’s questionable call.
Somewhere a government official is abusing taxpayers dollars, corporations are down-sizing with extensive layoffs and a teen-ager is cocking his A.K. 47, getting ready to mow down student bullies at his high school, and Bittersmith is whining because some 12-year-old was called out while evading a tag.
And he wonders why people think he’s such a loser.
The truth: Jerry has too much time on his hands. In the small world he calls his life, this game matters too much. He wants everyone to think he knows everything about baseball. He wants to believe he can call a game better than any little league or high school referee, and he wishes he could have a second chance to prove to the community he was once the pride and joy of his little league team.
Last week, he was so bored with his life, he punched an umpire over a rinky-dink call. That got him a felony assault charge an a hefty bail sum (can’t swing at officials).
He was a good father. He was a good accountant. He might have been a decent pitcher in high school. Now he’s a criminal.
And he will never live that down, because Bittersmith, for as long as he is apart of that baseball community, will forever be known as “Crazy Jerry,” the guy who sits behind the home dugout – row 13, seat J.
