Old Bones: A Collection of Short Stories

by Steve Campbell

Now

  DEREK POKES ME in the ribs with a bony elbow and tells me I’m on deck. I seem to float from my seat and up the steps. In foul territory, I almost hover above the on-deck circle where I swing a weighted bat, all the while dreaming of hitting another home run for beautiful Julie Sommers.

  I put on a batter’s helmet and observe the scoreboard telling me there are two outs. I wonder if Petey Wilson will be the final out, but he answers my question by placing a hot bouncing double between left field and center field. However, the center fielder is quick to catch up with the ball and throw it to his shortstop, thereby keeping Danny Richards from rounding third base and scoring the tying run.

  The Yellow Jackets’ coach calls for a pitcher change and Coach Walker is at my side giving me a gut wrenching pep talk.

  “Forget about those last two strikeouts,” he says, which causes those last two strikeouts to loom large in my mind. “Just get a hit, Tyler. Just get a hit.”

  I steal a glance at Julie. Coach Walker tells me to get the crowd out of my mind, but their excitement fills my head and their noise drowns out Coach’s words. He places a beefy hand on my thin shoulder and his touch brings the sight of him back in focus.

  “You can do this, Tyler. All you need to do is empty your mind of everything around you and focus only on the ball. Can you do that?”

  I nod and wonder if I can forget about the anxiety dancing across my back.

  Coach Walker puts an arm around my shoulders. “Imagine yourself hitting the ball … connecting,” he says.

  My mind is searching. I know what he means. Whenever I connect with the ball, it feels soft against the bat. Sometimes there is barely a feeling at all, like—

  “Like hitting butter,” I cry out.

  “Sure. Butter. Why not?” He smiles. “Now you go to that plate and imagine you’re going to hit a stick of butter. See it in your mind. When that pitcher throws the ball, it’s nothing but a stick of butter.”