The green center fielder, who hadn’t backed up the play, hadn’t even budged the whole time, glared through his thick glasses at the right fielder. “You geek, Richie,” he yelled. “You just lost us the game.”
The right fielder hung his head.
Richie.
The first thing Gil wanted to do was hop over the fence and smack the center fielder’s face. The second was smack Richie’s.
Gil did neither. He stood by the chain-link fence, gazing at Richie, thinking of what he should say.
“That’s okay, Richie, everybody boots one from time to time.” But boot them like that? And then throw like that?
Or: “Get your head up-they’re still playing.”
Or: “Don’t snivel, you little bastard.”
Before he could say anything, the next batter hit a little pop-up that the pitcher-another girl, Gil saw-caught easily, and the inning was over. The green team ran in. Furiously wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Richie ran in too.
Gil hopped the fence. In foul ground, he walked toward the infield. The grass was soft and springy under his feet. Memories that he didn’t have time for arose instantly in the back of his mind, waiting for his attention. The orange team took the field, began throwing balls around. If only one got loose and rolled to him, he’d show them what throwing was about. He pictured himself flinging a bullet over the center-field fence, over the church across the street, over the trees behind it, gone. But no balls got loose and rolled to him.
There was a small set of bleachers along each baseline; three or four rows of benches, perhaps a dozen spectators in all. Gil sat in the bottom row on the first-base side, as close to the plate as he could get.
The umpire was a white-haired man who might have played third base long ago: bandy legs, Popeye forearms, leather skin. “Top of the sixth,” he said, pulling on his mask. “Last ups.”
The pitcher led off for the green team. She had a relaxed stance and a smooth, compact swing. She lined the first pitch up the middle for a clean single, and took second when the center fielder hesitated, sliding in under the throw. A man on the bench above Gil’s said, “All right, Crystal.”
“Ain’t over yet,” said another man. “Anything can happen, especially in the minors.”
“We just moved here,” said the first man. “Too late for the draft. Or Crystal would have been in the majors.”
The second man said nothing.
The first man spoke again: “According to that Pellegrini guy.”
The second man said nothing.
“He was real upset about it,” the first man said. “Called me personally.”
The second man remained silent. The first man gave up.
The next batter was the tiny shortstop. He walked on four pitches.
Gil turned to the second man. “Where are we in the order?”
The first man answered for him. “My daughter Crystal bats cleanup.”
The number-six hitter nubbed one down to first. The first baseman picked it up and stepped on the bag. The tiny kid and Crystal scooted over to second and third. One out, tying and go-ahead runners in scoring position.
The number-seven hitter surprised everyone by laying a bunt down the first-baseline. But as he ran out of the box, the ball bounced up and hit him in the thigh. The umpire called him out.
“What the hell is that?” said Crystal’s father.
“The rule,” replied Gil without turning.
Two out. The number-eight hitter stepped up-the center fielder with the thick glasses-and Richie came out of the third-base dugout and into the on-deck circle. At almost the same moment, the gate in the fence on that side opened, and Ellen and Tim walked in.
The first pitch was on its way. “Come on, Brendan,” called the second man. Brendan took a cut, but after the ball was already in the catcher’s mitt.
“Jesus,” said Crystal’s father, not quite under his breath.
“Come on, Brendan,” called Brendan’s father, louder this time.
Brendan watched the second pitch all the way, bat at rest on his shoulder.
“Strike two,” said the ump.
“Game over,” said Crystal’s father, making even less attempt this time to keep his voice down.
On the other side, Ellen had caught Richie’s eye and was waving to him, a big smile on her face. Richie didn’t wave back. Good boy, Gil thought. At that moment she saw Gil. Her eyes widened. She turned quickly to Tim.
The pitcher wound up, lobbed it in. Very slow, a little inside. Again, Brendan didn’t move. The ball glanced off his forearm. He screamed and fell down, writhing. After five or ten seconds, he realized he wasn’t hurt and took his free pass to first.
Two outs, bases loaded, game on the line. Richie stepped in.
Gil was on his feet now, but silent. Behind him Crystal’s father said, “Maybe he’ll get hit too. It’s our only chance.”
Richie took a few practice cuts. Horrible ones. Gil heard Ellen calling, “You can do it, Richie.” Gil shot a glance at the third-base side. Tim had disappeared.
The first pitch: a meatball, right down the middle. For a moment, Gil thought that Richie was going to let it go by; nothing wrong with that, taking the first pitch in a situation like this. But at the last moment, Richie swung, and missed by a foot.
Crystal’s father said, “Christ almighty.”
The second pitch was over Richie’s head. He swung at that too, coming a little closer this time.
“Strike two,” said the ump.
Behind him, Gil heard the two fathers gathering their things. He checked the third-base side. Ellen was watching him. Their eyes met. There was an expression in hers he had never seen before: a negative expression, but not her hostile one, with which he was familiar. This was fear. The sight pleased him. She looked away.
The next pitch bounced two feet in front of the plate. Richie started to swing, then held back. From the other side, a voice called, “He went, ump.”
“Ball one,” said the ump.
The pitcher bounced another one in the same place. Richie didn’t even twitch this time.
“Ball two,” said the ump.
“Time,” called the orange coach, stepping onto the field. The pitcher walked off the mound, met him at the third-baseline. The coach knelt down and said something. The pitcher replied, a long reply, accompanied by finger-pointing at several of his own players. The coach cut him off, raising his voice a little, loud enough for Gil to hear, or think he heard: “Just get the damned thing over. No way he’s going to hit it.”
“Play ball,” said the ump.
The pitcher returned to the mound. Richie took another horrible practice swing. Then the pitch, way inside. Richie went down.
“That hit him, didn’t it?” said Crystal’s father.
“Sure looked like it,” said Brendan’s father.
But Gil knew it hadn’t. If it had, Richie would be crying. The ump raised both fists. Full count.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, ump?” yelled Crystal’s father.
Richie got up, straightened his batting helmet, took his wretched stance. Both teams were on their feet now, screaming this and that. Gil heard Ellen above the din: “You can do it, Richie. You can do it.”
He thought: Be a hero, boy. He saw himself up there, powerful, coiled, murderous: driving one over that fence, over that church, over those trees. Grand slam. Be a hero, boy.
The pitch. Aimed, not thrown: the fattest one yet, somewhat inside. But not as far inside as the one before. Richie went down again. The ump punched the air with his right fist. “Strike three.”
The orange team mobbed their pitcher.
Richie lay in the dirt.
Crystal’s father said, “What did I tell you? What did I fucking tell you?”
Gil wheeled around and smashed him in the face.
He took a swing at Brendan’s father’s face too, but he was farther away, and the blow struck his shoulder.
“What the hell?” said Brendan’s father.
“No one calls my boy a geek,” Gil said.
“But I didn’t call him anything, you-”
Brendan’s father, getting his first good look at Gil, fell silent.