by Joe Gribble
to shake, nervously pulls his hand back and looks away. “Hey, Coach.”
Q follows. “S'up, Coach?”
Josh then points out the obvious to the team. “He's only got one arm.” He turns back to Bob. “How you gonna coach with just one arm, Coach?”
Bob tells them the truth. “You know, I'm not sure. We'll have to see how it goes.”
JJ asks what they’re all wondering. “So how'd you lose your arm, Coach?”
“Afghanistan. Took an IED hit.”
Ramiro shrugs his bulky shoulders. “What's an IED, Coach?”
“Roadside bomb. Weapon of choice for the Taliban,” Bob answers.
“Man. That sucks,” JJ says. The team mumbles in agreement.
“So how come you wanna be our coach?” JJ asks.
Bob shrugs. “Major Kepler told me you guys could use some help. From what I've seen, he’s right. When's your first game?”
“Two weeks,” Pauli says.
“That’s not much time,” Bob says. “You guys need to brush up on some basics. Fielding practice.”
Bob points at Q. “You almost missed that grounder.”
Q throws his hands up. “It took a bad bounce, Coach.”
“If you knew the basics, you wouldn’t have bobbled it. Might have had a cleaner throw to second,“ Bob says. “Everyone line up along the baseline.”
The whole team grumbles, but they slowly move to the baseline between second and third.
JJ speaks for them. “But we want to practice batting, Coach.”
“If you don't know the basics, you can't play with the big boys,” Bob says. He steps in front of Q. “This is how you field a grounder.”
Bob twists his feet sideways, still facing forward. He bends his knees so his legs form a barrier. His left hand goes down into the gap between his left knee and his right foot. “Glove down in the gap. Your right hand...” Bob glances at his missing arm again. “Well, if I had one I'd show you, but it's ready to cover the ball.”
JJ snickers. “Ain’t never seen no major league players do that on TV.”
“When you're good enough to play in the majors, you can do it however you want. For this team....” Bob pauses, glancing at each of the players. “What are you called, anyway?”
“We’re the frickin’ Bandits,” Shinji says.
“Banditos.” Ramiro high-fives Shinji.
Bob shakes his head, unable to avoid a grin. “Okay. The Bandits field grounders old school. You do it right and you block out a large area. That way grounders can’t get by. Got it?”
The team grumbles their agreement.
“Good,” Bob says. “Grab some balls and pair off, about thirty feet apart, and practice fielding.”
“We only got the one ball, Coach,” Josh says.
“One ball?” Bob shakes his head. “Okay. Pair off. Ladder down.”
“Whassat mean?” JJ asks.
“Toss me the ball,” Bob tells Josh.
Josh starts to throw the ball to Bob, but hesitates. Finally, he walks over and hands it to their new coach. He walks back to the baseline and the players pair off, straddling the baseline about fifteen feet apart.
“Get ready, Q,” Bob says.
Bob throws a grounder to Q. His left hand doesn't cooperate and the ball goes wide. Q moves over and fields it quickly, just like Bob showed him.
“Good,” Bob says. “Now Q throws it to the next guy ... what's your name, again?”
“Shinji.”
Q tosses an easy grounder to Shinji. Shinji fields it easily.
“No, no, no,” Bob says. “Don’t just toss it. Throw it!”
Shinji fires a grounder to Ramiro. Ramiro tries to scoop it up one-handed, but misses.
“Old school,” Bob says. “Do it like I showed you.
Bob shakes his head and walks back to the bench, yelling back over his shoulder. “Keep going down the line. When you get to the end, swap sides and keep practicing.”
Saunders fields the ball and rolls it back to Josh.
Bob shouts. “Throw the ball hard! This isn't little league.”
---
An hour later, the Bandits are still practicing “old-school” fielding. Bob sits on the bench.
Major Kepler walks up. Bob sees him and stands quickly at attention. Kepler waves for him to sit back down, and then sits beside him. “I think I see improvement already.”
Bob looks sideways at the major. “I don't know what these guys have been doing, but they ain't a ball team.”
Kepler smiles. “Maybe they just needed a coach.”
---
Bob’s Apartment
Bob opens the door to his apartment and steps inside. He flips on a light in the dark, sparse apartment. He tosses his keys onto a side table and sits down in the one chair in the living area. He unzips his boots, kicks them off.
Bob stands and grabs the remote, clicking on the TV as he walks to the kitchen. He returns with a can of beer, peels the top, and flops back down into the chair, feet up on the small coffee table.
The news comes on, showing a clip of yet another attack in Afghanistan. Vivid images of an explosion ripping away the side of a building, panicked Afghanis running for their lives. Bob averts his eyes quickly. He grabs the remote with a trembling hand and clicks over to a sports channel.
A baseball game is in full swing, Reds over the Padres, two to zip. The pitcher winds up, fires the ball at the plate. Bob can’t concentrate on the game. Images of the explosion he just saw keep looping over and over in his head. People running away, wounded and bleeding.
Bob takes a long drink of his beer. He gets up, goes over to the TV stand, and rummages through a stack of DVDs in the bottom compartment. He selects one with a white label that says “Pony League.” He slips it into the DVD player, grabs a whiskey bottle off of a table next to the TV, and returns to his chair. He holds the bottle between his legs and spins off the top, then takes a swig.
He hits the remote, starting the DVD.
A younger Bob in a baseball uniform comes into view on the pitcher’s mound at a well-attended game. Young Bob winds up and fires a fastball. He smokes it past the motionless batter.
A young Johnny catches the fastball as the umpire calls the strike.
Bob looks down at his missing arm, then takes another swig from the bottle.
---
Security Forces Headquarters, Wright Patterson Air Force Base
Back at work, Bob sits at a computer. He hits a key, then reaches across the keyboard and struggles with the mouse.
He goes back to the keyboard, finger hovering as he searches.
Major Kepler walks by the door. He sees Bob inside and steps in. “How's it going?”
Bob starts to stand.
Kepler holds his hand out. “Easy, Bob. As you were.”
“I used to type pretty fast,” Bob says. He reaches across for the mouse again.
Kepler sits down in the chair next to Bob. “This mouse will work left handed,” Kepler says. “I think all you have to do is change the configuration.”
“That would help a lot,” Bob says.
“Get the IT folks to look at it,” Kepler says.
Bob continues to peck away with one finger. “Do they make a left-handed keyboard?”
“Not very good with your left hand?” Kepler asks.
“Never was,” Bob replies.
“That might be a problem,” Kepler says. “You're up for re-qual on the nine mil.”
Bob stops in mid-type, finger pausing over the keyboard. “Already?”
“Yeah,” Kepler says. “The system flagged you when you got wounded. I can waive a lot of things, but a cop has to be able to shoot.”
Bob drops his hand onto the table, looks at it. “If I can't qual, guess I'm out?”
“See Airman White at the range,” Kepler says. “Use all the ammo you need. Practice till it hurts.”
“I'll get right on that, sir,” Bob says.
As Kepler stands to leave, he pats B
ob on the shoulder. “You'll do fine. “ He steps to the door, pauses, and turns. “How're the Bandits doing?”
Bob turns in his chair and faces the Major. “They're a little thin on the fundamentals. I’m not sure I can help them.”
Kepler grins. “Well, you can't hurt. Keeps you close to the game. That's a good thing. You been back out there?”
“We’ve got practice tomorrow. Maybe I'll decide then. I don't want to lead them on.”
---
Bandits Baseball Field
It’s an overcast, hazy day at the Bandits' ramshackle baseball field. Bob sits on the bench, waiting, watching the three players already on the field.
Ramiro shows up. He sits down on the bench to put on his catcher's gear. “Que paso, Coach?”
“English,” Bob says. “You're an American.”
”Almost, Coach,” Ramiro says. “Almost. The paperwork’s being processed, least that's what they tell us.”
“So you're on a green card?” Bob asks.
“I wish,” Ramiro says. “It’s expired. My whole family is waiting. They told us to stay, keep a low profile. I’m not supposed to talk about it.” Ramiro fastens his shin guard and trots out to home plate.
JJ, the pitcher, starts warming up with Ramiro. Bob watches as they practice. JJ’s first pitch goes well outside. Ramiro misses it, and it crashes into the backstop. He trots over to get it, throws it back to JJ.
JJ winds up and throws again. The ball goes inside this time. Ramiro dives to get it. He stands and throws it back to JJ, dusting off his shirt.
JJ pitches again. This time Ramiro has to leap high into the air to snag it.
Bob shakes his head. He stands and walks toward the pitcher’s mound. He looks at the catcher and holds his hand up. Bob steps up to the mound. “Settle down, JJ. Get 'em over the plate. Don't worry about speed yet.”
“But if I throw slow over the plate, everybody's going to hit them,” JJ says.
“That's what batters do,” Bob