“The game has been delayed,” Pappy told us through the open kitchen window. The lack of air conditioning in the house is what had brought all of us outside to the back porch. We were witnessing the reason for the delay; a wicked thunderstorm had settled itself nicely over Baltimore that afternoon. The winds came first, followed by the rain that pummeled the tin roof that covered us. The roar of approaching thunder was in the distance. My two younger brothers were hugging tight to mom, while I sat with grandma on the opposite lawn chair. I tried my best to look unafraid, but I, too, hated thunderstorms.

The screen door banged loudly against the frame as Pappy, adorned in the outfit I will always remember him in, handed mom a plate of thickly sliced heirloom tomatoes sprinkled with salt and pepper. “Here, Chico,” he said, using the nickname he always called her. He stood for a moment, in his crisp, white V-neck tee shirt, with a dish towel draped over his shoulder, and watched the sky. Pappy didn’t come outside often, just enough to tend to his tomato garden and pick up the newspaper. After a few moments he retreated to his own fortress of solitude: his bedroom. That’s where he spent most of his days watching Orioles baseball and the Preakness Stakes. That’s where he rode on his stationary exercise bike. That’s where there was one window air conditioning unit. Sometimes, when we’d visit, we perch on the edge of the bed to hear him curse under his breath at the Orioles. It was worth it for the cool air. Otherwise, we survived those humid summer nights at my grandparents’ split-level house with a cool shower, box fans, and a thin sheet.

I helped myself to two slices of tomato. Some juice and seeds ran down my face and arms, but I didn’t care. The full, round taste of a fat summer tomato was worth it. As we chowed down, a flash of lightning lit up the chain-linked backyards around us. The thunder that followed happened faster, louder. My brothers flinched. I must have too. My mom noticed because without hesitation she said, “Don’t you know that thunderstorms are just Jesus and the angels playing baseball?” One of my brothers peered at her with one eye while the second remained buried in her bosom. “Yes,” she continued, “Jesus is the pitcher, the angels play the field, and those in heaven are up to bat. See? Like this. When the lightning strikes, Jesus has pitched the ball. The louder the thunder, the bigger the hit.”

“So, who is up to bat?” I asked. This was the late 90s and Orioles baseball was a passion I shared with my younger brothers. We obsessively collected baseball cards. We saved our money and would walk to the store for a new pack. We’d feel all the packs before we picked one to ensure that we found the lucky one. Once, my uncle took us to Camden Yards for a game and told us that he would buy us anything in the team store – no price limit. My brother and I each picked a pack of team cards. That’s all we needed. The more Ripkens, Andersons, Surhoffs, Palmeiros, Mussinas, and Alomars we could get, the better. Of course, we’d never turn down a Griffey Jr., Jeter (boo, Yankees), Maddux, Clemens, or a Bonds.

“That’s the fun part. We can choose anyone we want that’s already in heaven,” my mom answered.

“Like Babe Ruth?” my brother asked my mom.

“Yes, like Babe. He’s up to bat now – here goes the pitch!”

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky. We waited for the swing of the bat from Babe himself. Suddenly, a slow grumble rolled by us. We looked at mom.

“Definitely a base hit,” she remarked. “But I bet the next batter can do better. Who is up now?”

“Jackie Robinson!” I shouted before my brother followed with Lou Gherig.

“Okay, Jackie’s up to bat. Lou’s on deck,” mom stated.

My siblings and I moved to the edge of the lawn chairs we had been sharing. The lightning struck again. Quickly, thunder followed with a boom.

“Jackie definitely hit a double!” Babe likely scored,” I boasted.

The next flash of lightning, a pitch from Jesus, was delivered to Lou Gherig. The thunder crackled and popped before shaking the ground.

“Lou Gherig totally broke his bat!” my brother jumped up cheering.

“Oh, that was definitely a home run!” mom cheered.

“Whatever,” I mumbled, a little sour that Jackie didn’t perform better for me.

“Alright, who is up next?” mom asked.

“How about Moses?” Grandma added.

We all looked at each other, noses wrinkled in disdain. But mom didn’t skip a beat and cheered for Moses. She reminded us that anyone in heaven could show up to the plate. For the next twenty minutes, or however long it took for the storm to pass, mom provided commentary as George Washington, MLK, our late, great-grandfather Ernie, our late, great-grandmother Lillian, Elvis, Hank Aaron, and Pappy’s dog Johan slammed balls out of the park.

I can still feel the cool, textured concrete of the patio that my toes gripped in anticipation of each batter in heaven. Jesus delivered a mean fastball. Surprisingly, no one struck out. My littlest brother jumped out of the chair when his late Beta fish, Tummy, smashed a triple. His oversized tee shirt hung to his knees and his sweaty bowl hair cut stuck to his forehead. After heaven’s home run derby, we sloshed barefoot through the wet grass to catch lightning bugs on that deep, August summer day.

Twenty years later I sat on my front porch with my two kids. The wind whipped down our street, making the mighty maple in our front yard dance wildly. The kids and I had just rescued our potted cherry tomato plant from the coming storm. It was with us on the porch. Some of the rain was falling sideways onto the porch, misting my legs, but I didn’t mind. The storm would hopefully drive out some of the incessant humidity. When the first bolt of lightning shot through the sky, I didn’t flinch. I hadn’t since the late 90s when mom introduced us to the home run derby up in heaven.

“Can we go inside? We are scared.” My kids were holding onto the door handle, jaws clenched, ready to tap out.

“Well, wait a minute, have I ever told you that a thunderstorm is just Jesus and the angels playing baseball?” They blinked the same blank stares that my mom must have seen from me and my siblings long ago. “Yeah, each flash of lightning is Jesus pitching the ball, the angels play the field, and people in heaven hit the ball,” I explained to them, along with the rest of the concept. Soon enough, they were sitting in the chair next to me, eating cherry tomatoes off the vine, shouting out who was next on deck. Roberto Clemente made an appearance, along with Michael Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, the dead worm my son found earlier, and most importantly, Pappy, who hit a grand slam.

– Austrie Martinez