Where Are You Now, Sandy Koufax?

In retrospect, I overreacted. When the Cedar Rapids Kernels offered to let me throw out a first pitch, I shouldn’t have run by the editors’ offices yelling “I bet your precious Calvin Trillin has never thrown out a first pitch!” I called my new favorite minor-league team immediately and accepted, drunk on my own power and assuming Cedar Rapids wasn’t really far away. It is. From anywhere.

Before I left, I meant to practice pitching. What I focused on instead was what to wear. I examined old photos of Presidents’ throwing out first pitches, most of whom went with suits. This seemed the smartest option until I found out I couldn’t expense a suit. Then I came up with the idea of buying a Kernels uniform. This, I figured, would not only go over well with the crowd but was also completely expensable.

It wasn’t until I got on the plane to Iowa that I panicked about the pitch. In a stroke of dumb luck, I found myself seated next to Matt Goeke, an 11-year-old Little League player who agreed to serve, in a limited, seated capacity, as my pitching coach. He gave me a piece of Bubble Yum, the official gum of Major League Baseball, to chew on the mound. He also drew some diagrams, mostly of a baseball and where the stitches are. “Don’t try to be somebody else. Don’t try to gun it. Get your own good windup,” he advised, until I informed him that I didn’t have anyone’s windup, including my own. He smiled and turned away.

In a last effort before heading out to the mound, I asked Mr. Shucks, the corn ear with a baseball head, for advice. It was then I learned Mr. Shucks is a woman. I found this oddly exciting.

Although I had suggested some ideas for my introduction, I was as surprised as the other 1,914 people in the stadium to hear all three minutes of them read over the p.a. The endless encomium consisted of sentences like “Mr. Stein is an active participant in many clubs and organizations” and “Although in previous first pitches he has been accused of scuffing the ball, Mr. Stein would like to point out that nothing has ever been proved.” There was no laughter.

The pitch did not go well. Frazzled by my introduction, I bounced it in front of home plate and then, forgetting Goeke’s advice to look happy if I messed up, made a facial expression that was far more Woody Allen than Kevin Costner. As local sports columnist Mike Hlas commented, “That was one bad throw. I know it’s not as easy as it looks, but man.” Even worse, Veronica Portillo, a girlfriend of one of the players, said, “You looked a little old for the first pitch. They’re usually little kids.” But her friend Shannon Kroll said, “Your outfit looked good.” I should reveal here that I bought Shannon a beer. In fact, I bought a lot of people beer. You can’t help it when you’re in Iowa. Not so much because everyone is nice but because beer is really cheap.

By the third inning, I’d made lots of friends. I did color in the radio booth with John Rodgers, who explained how Cedar Rapids was a city of five seasons: winter, spring, summer, fall and “time,” which they always make sure to enjoy. I think of Cedar Rapids as the city with a poor grasp of the word season.

Even though I was there for only one day, I miss my friends in Iowa. They weren’t tough and silent like I’d expected but welcoming and open. I know if I ever go back, they’ll always be there for me. After all, I buy them beer.