The Mad Russian

The "Mad Russian" probably wasn’t Russian, but we called him that anyways. His beard, a bushy Dostoyevsky affair, and his demeanor, skittish and sideways-glancing, gave him the air of a strange philosophy professor on a leave of absence from reality.

We never got to know the Mad Russian personally; in fact, as he didn't speak English and we didn't speak Czech, verbal communication was difficult. But for our purposes at the time, verbal communication wasn't all that necessary.

Two English teaching ex-pats, Milo and me would meet in Prague's Kampa Park perhaps once a week to play catch with the baseball gloves I had brought from the US. It was great fun, and since at that time plenty of people had never seen baseball gloves before, we were approached nearly every time we played.

That's how we met the Mad Russian.

As we were playing catch one day, this bearded man of energy approached Milo and spoke to him in a Slavic language. Of course Milo didn't understand a word, but from the gestures the man was making, Milo reckoned that he wanted to have a catch.

So Milo took off his glove and handed it to the man, who was clearly elated. Even putting the glove on the wrong hand was funny and interesting for him, and with great excitement he punched his hand into the mitt and beckoned me to throw the ball to him. Milo stood back, grinning and happy to be an observer at this fresh new comedy.

Because Milo and I are old hands at playing catch, we were standing about 30 or 40 yards apart. But for this fellow, I figured I’d better move up a bit. I walked towards him, but the closer I got, the more agitated he became – he didn't wanna play little girl catch, he wanted to start out in the big leagues, baby!

So I threw the ball to him, lightly and with a good bit of arc so he had time to react. As soon as the ball left my hands, the Mad Russian began dancing, trying to gauge the ball's trajectory. The nearer the ball got, the more anxious and jittery he became, and at the last second he decided to abort the whole operation and just voered his head with the glove. The ball plopped harmlessly on the grass next to him, no damage done aside from his nerves. All three of us were laughing.

I moved closer to him so he wouldn't be so scared, and this time, he didn't object. It was his throw, perhaps the first ever of his life, and he wasn't about to throw it short; the ball went sailing about 10 feet over my head.

Which is fine, until you consider that Kampa Park is normally crowded in the afternoons. The ball went rolling through the people lying on the grass and came to a stop about 50 yards behind me. Since no one made a move to pick it up and throw it back, I trotted over to get it.

As I was walking back, the Mad Russian was gesturing wildly at me – he wanted me to throw him the ball from 60 yards out, over the heads of dozens of already sour people.

I jogged back to within 15 yards, his smile growing smaller and smaller the closer I got, and threw the ball to him. He still danced wildly under the ball, Jerry Lewis Plays Baseball, but this time he managed to get his glove out and actually hit the ball before it plopped to the ground. 

Perhaps angered at our continued laughing, this time when the Mad Russian had the ball he acted like he was going to throw it at me as hard as he could – a mighty windup and full follow-through - and man did I jump, glove up and protecting myself.

But the Mad Russian didn't throw the ball, he was just clowning around and thought my fright was the funniest thing he'd seen all day. He and Milo were both falling all over themselves at my indignation.

When he finally did throw the ball, I caught it and sent it back to him lightly. He still did that tap dance under the ball, but this time he actually caught it! He was making progress, and was completely caught up in it.

Milo was also caught up in it as he watched the Mad Russian spray ball after ball over my head, way left, way right, at the same people again and again.

The Mad Russian must have seen a baseball game somewhere in the past and was imitating it because he tried to throw every third ball as if he were The Rocket trying to pick off a first base runner. He'd face sideways and look at me over his shoulder before exploding in a fury of flailing arms. The ball would emerge at high speed and hardly ever come towards me – I was getting tired of shagging his misdirected throws and asked Milo to trade places.

"No way, Jimbo,” he said. “This is too good to miss."

So I was stuck with the Mad Russian that first day until eventually he very theatrically rubbed his shoulder as it hurt him – and it probably did, what with the pickoff moves he was attempting – and handed the glove back to Milo. Very earnestly, the Mad Russian shook both our hands and thanked us before disappearing back into the park.

Milo and I sat down together and discussed our strange experience, enjoying its retelling already, and that's when we came up with his nickname. That summer, the Mad Russian became a regular and comedic addition to our games of catch and we even took turns watching each other run after all his misguided throws.

But all things change, and Milo eventually left Prague for some new adventure, which brought an end to our reindeer games.

Months later I saw the Mad Russian walking on the street towards me and I waved, but he looked at me funny and kept on walking.