Word gets around about the game. It's not exactly like the games of yore, but a few dozen people show up with lawn chairs and coolers on the day of the game, settled down for an afternoon of baseball. It is during the workday, so there's not a lot of parents. Dad is working at the store, for example.
At least all the players show up.
“You guys nervous?” I ask the team. “We have spectators this time.”
“Nah,” says David.
“We've played tennis in front of people,” Shannon says, meaning her and Rita.
“We've played basketball in front of people,” says Miggy, meaning him and Tim.
“I was in a school play,” says Carlos.
“I'll be okay,” says Kazuo.
An SUV pulls alongside the park, and as soon as the team spills out, we know we're sunk. The kids are fresh out of T-ball. I'd be surprised if any of them has seen his ninth birthday.
“What the heck is this?” asks David.
“The old switcheroo,” says Steve.
“I hate that 'roo,” says Rita.
“Roy? Roy McGuire?” Needlenose is playing coach, wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt, with a whistle slung around his neck and expensive sunglasses tucked into his collar. I'm surprised he's old enough to drive. He didn't look that much older than us.
“We should have seen this one coming,” says Sturgis, his annoyance tinged with respect.
“Let's get out there,” I tell him. “I think we can make a game of it.”
“Yeah, right. Pitching to toddlers. My favorite sport.”
I walk out to meet Ned near the plate, my teammates skulking behind me, a dozen feet back.
“Come on, guys,” I tell them. “Let's introduce ourselves.” We shake hands with the gaggle of young boys Ned has brought.
“You're old,” says one of the boys matter-of-factly.
“Don't worry,” says Ned. “You guys are a lot more experienced, so it evens out.”
“Well, let's pick teams,” I announce.
“Um, that's not how it's done.” Ned looks at me around his nose. It isn't fair to say it's a needle. It's long, sure, but not nearly pointy enough to use as a sewing instrument. It looks more like a fungo bat. “Your team is supposed to play our team.”
“Let's just pick teams instead,” says one of his players, and his teammates rapidly agree. Ned looks a little blue in the face but doesn't put up much of a fight.
“But I've got plans!” he says. “We have to be back in Sutton by three o'clock.”
“Well, you knew there would be a game this afternoon,” Rita reminds him.
He sighs, pulls out a cell phone, and wanders off.
“Who's your pitcher?” I ask the boys.
One of the boys timidly raises his hand. He has the same whitish blond hair as Ned, and I suspect he's a little brother.
“Okay, why don't you be a captain? And, Rita, you too. That way both teams have a pitcher. You pick first.” I clap my hand on the boy's shoulder.
“Are you playing?” he asks me.
“Oh yeah.”
“Then I pick you!”
“I need a catcher,” says Rita. “Who's a catcher?” A pudgy boy raises his hand, and she picks him.
After that, it's easy enough to divide up into equal teams. We more or less go by positions through the right fielders. There's more of them than us, though, so I just assign the last few kids to teams rather than force one of them to be the last one picked.
I'm on a team with David, Miggy, Shannon, and five or six kids, including Carlos. The other team is Rita, Kazuo, Steve, Anthony, Tim, and the rest of the kids.
“We're the Orcs,” I tell the kids.
“We'll be the Hobbits, then!”
Since they picked first, we get to be the home team. As my team of Orcs takes the field, I realize that Sturgis isn't even among us anymore. He's disappeared.
I walk casually over to the small crowd of onlookers.
“Anyone want to be umpire?” I ask.
Sturgis is stretched out on the couch, petting Yogi and reading a book called Stormbringer. Based on the title, it's probably the last book anyone else in Moundville would want to read.
“How was the game?” he asks.
“Pretty good. The Orcs won.” It was actually a great afternoon, I tell him. Nobody took the game too seriously, but we played for seven and a half innings. The Orcs officially won in the bottom of the seventh, taking a six-to-five lead on a badly fielded grounder that scored a run. We didn't want to win that way, though, so we gave them an extra half inning to bat. The crowd stuck around for every pitch.
“We missed you,” I tell him at last.
“I can't pitch to little kids,” he says. “It wouldn't be right.”
“You could have played another position.”
“You haven't seen me play other positions,” he says. “It isn't pretty.” I think it's sad that Sturgis is worried about how he looks among some little kids but decide not to pursue it.
“Ned was a no-show for most of it, too,” I tell him. “He came back around the fifth inning and was so impatient I thought he'd explode.” I was proud of those kids for playing on, ignoring his threats and pleading. Our pitcher silenced him at once by saying he'd “tell Mom” how Ned had taken the car out with just his learner's permit.
“You should have seen his face when I suggested the extra half inning,” I tell Sturgis. “It was priceless. That was half the reason I suggested it.”
“Not as good as a fastball to the sternum, but at least he learned a lesson,” he replies.
I'm not being completely level with Sturgis. The mixed-up game with the Little Leaguers from Sutton was fun, but it wasn't satisfying. We were out for blood and got Kool-Aid.
It's not just wanting to beat St. James, though, or even beating Needlenose Van Fungobat at his own game. We've played a couple of exhibitions now, but we still haven't gone toe to toe with a real opponent. As I walk into the bedroom, I glance at my baseball from Adam and get a great idea: our gang of newbies could play his team of all-stars.
My mom calls on Friday. She hasn't called for a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lot longer. She's calling from Lisbon, Portugal, this time. She was an attendant on a flight out there and is allowed to take a day to herself before she works on a flight back. It's early in the evening here but must be past midnight there. She sounds like she's been having a good time. It's slurry, incoherent Mom, not creepy, knows-everything Mom.
“There's no baseball on the Iberian Peninsula,” she says, stumbling on the word “Iberian” and rhyming “Peninsula” with “Venezuela.” I can send you a postcard of a soccer stadium, though.”
“That would be okay.”
“Do you have any idea how crazy they are about soccer here?”
“I've heard they're pretty crazy about soccer everywhere.”
“There was some kind of big tournament here. Well, not here exactly, but I guess there was some kind of big tournament. And Portugal did really well. Everyone's talking about it.”
“I'll bet.”
“Is it the World Series of Soccer?”
“Mom, it's called the World Cup.”
“Right. Anyway, the Portugals did really well. I think they won or something.”
“They got fourth place.” Miggy and Anthony were following the World Cup pretty closely and talked about it a lot.
“Really? Because people here are acting like it's a big deal.”
“Fourth place is really good for the World Cup,” I tell her. “There's lots of countries, you know.”
“That is so true! People say that it's a small world, but you know, it's not small. It's really big,” she says. “It's really, really big.”
“Yeah,” I agree, afraid she'll start singing “It's a Big World After All.”
“So is it still not raining in Moundville?”
“Not all the time anymore, no. I've got a baseball team and everything.” I tell her a little bit about th
e team.
“That's wunnerful,” she says. “I'll have to come see you play. I don't think I've ever seen Moundville win a game!” She laughs. “I only ever really saw the games against Sinister Bend. Do you think they'll play a rematch?”
“There's no Sinister Bend, really,” I remind her.
“They'd probably play you.” Sometimes she's not a very good listener. “Why wouldn't they? It's a tradition. Plus, they always win.”
“There is no Sinister Bend.” I try to speak louder, just in case it's a bad connection.
“Well, it's late here. Goodbye.” She clicks off, forgetting to say she loves me and not letting me tell her.
Through extensive e-mails and IM sessions, Adam and I are able to schedule a game on the university campus where we went to baseball camp. The town is nearly halfway between Moundville and Adam's hometown.
Half of us pile into Mr. Robinson's SUV, the other half into one driven by Kazuo's mom. She turns out to be the more fearless driver and leaves us in the dust while Mr. Robinson drives the speed limit.
“Most people go five or ten miles over the limit,” Steve says as the other car disappears in the distance.
“What's the hurry?” Mr. Robinson asks, tapping the digital clock. “We're making excellent time. Anyway, I've got a special musical program just for the occasion.” He takes out a CD marked “Part 1 of 4,” and I know we're in trouble.
The university has everything a college is supposed to: stately buildings covered with ivy, spacious lawns with trees perfectly placed for sitting under while reading a book, and a football stadium that rises above it all like a cathedral. Behind that stadium are practice fields, tennis courts, and a narrow river in which preppies probably shout “Bully!” and “Port ho!” to dapper crews in vests and white caps. It's all very collegiate.
There are also four baseball diamonds, which all come in handy when softball and baseball camps are under way but are relatively unused otherwise. So says Adam's older brother, who even signs one out to his fraternity's nonexistent softball team to be sure.
We get started around 2:00, a bit later than we planned, but still with enough time to play and get home at a decent hour.
It turns out to be a short game anyway. Adam has stuff even I haven't seen, making the ball twist around our bats like it's a Wiffle ball. Sturgis has his fastball working but changes speed enough that the other guys are always guessing when to swing and never guessing right. Both pitchers are in the groove, and the innings fly by.
After six regulation innings, it's not even 4:00. Nobody's had a runner on third. We're all hot and tired, though, and I just want someone to win so we can go home—so long as the someone is us.
“How's your arm?” I ask Sturgis.
“Like I said,” he tells me, “I can pitch all day. My arm never gets tired.”
Adam is not so lucky. In the top of the seventh, with one out, he drops enough balls in the dirt to walk Steve, then waves off his coach so he can keep pitching. I know that kids can get injured throwing too many pitches, especially curve-balls. I want to run out to the mound and tell him there's a lot more riding on this game than a win, but I also know Adam well enough to know how pointless it is. He's like the knight in the movie who loses an arm and calls it a flesh wound.
He hangs a curveball on Tim, who bloops it past their shortstop. Steve runs all the way to third base. Adam curses audibly and looks like he might cry.
Sturgis is the next scheduled batter.
“I'm pinch-hitting for you,” I tell him. “Anthony, you're up!”
“Does that mean I can't pitch next inning?” Sturgis asks.
“I don't know.” Unlike pro ball, Little League rules are pretty flexible about taking players out of the game and putting them back in again. I'm worried about Sturgis, though. Even if he says he can throw all day and not get hurt, the truth is that a kid can wreck his arm forever if he strains himself.
“Right now I want someone who can get a base hit. We'll decide who pitches when it's our turn to pitch.”
“I'm fine. I can pitch as long as you need me to.” He hands the bat to Anthony and goes back to the dugout.
“Bring 'em home, Tony!” I holler.
He does, flying out to left field, deep enough that Steve can score. We're all hugs and high fives at the plate, except Sturgis. Rita herself gives Anthony such a hug I'm a mite jealous, although it's nothing compared to the way he squeezes Shannon.
I slide over by Sturgis on the bench. “I'm going to have Rita close the game. Show them something different.”
He just grumbles at me.
“Fine. Be that way.”
Adam's team is relieved to see Rita take the mound in the bottom of the seventh, since they've had no success against Sturgis. That is, until they find themselves flailing helplessly at her screwball. They get a base runner but strand him on second.
“See, we won,” I tell Sturgis. “Come on, let's go shake hands with those guys.”
He just looks at me with mean, hurt eyes and refuses to budge.
I'm thrilled when Rita clambers aboard Mr. Robinson's SUV after the game. She sits next to me, which may or may not mean anything.
“Switching horses, eh?” Mr. Robinson asks her.
“I needed to make room for Sturgis. He wanted to ride back with them.”
Ride back without me is more like it, I think.
“It's all right with me, though.” Rita shudders visibly. “The way that woman drives scares me.”
“I'm a big fan of traffic safety,” I tell her. “My aunt Evelyn died in a car accident.”
“Oh!” She looks at me sadly.
“It's okay,” I say. “I didn't really know her.” As usual, when I'm talking to Rita, everything I say is dumb.
“Well, you're in luck,” Mr. Robinson announces. “I've got some great music lined up for the trip home. Sam Cooke. Otis Redding. Etta James.”
“Sounds great,” says Rita politely. I realize for the first time that her hair smells like raspberries and she has a few small pimples covered with a brownish cream. I knew they made pink pimple cream that didn't look at all believable on white skin, but I didn't know they also made pimple cream that didn't look at all believable on brown skin. In a weird way, it's interesting. Both the raspberry smell and the cream make me like her more.
She edges away from me, and I realize that studying a girl's blemishes in fascination isn't a very good way to woo her. I'm unable to recover with anything clever, so we ride back in silence, barely mumbling to each other when the car hits a bump and sends one of us crashing into the other.
In the back, Steve and Tim are whispering to one an-other. I can't really hear them but catch occasional words and phrases.
“… not much of a team player,” Steve is saying.
“Always been a jerk to me,” says Tim.
They're obviously talking about Sturgis. I don't have the energy to defend him, though. Besides, what could I say? That he didn't brood and pout after the game? That he was full to the brim with team spirit?
Maybe I'll talk to him later, I decide. Probably not tonight but maybe tomorrow.
Eventually, I slide down into my seat, resting my knees on the back of the seat in front of me. My knees are pretty sore after the game, and a long, cramped drive is the last thing I need. I close my eyes and doze off to the soothing voice of Sam Cooke over the car stereo and the intoxicating smell of raspberries.
Thanks to Mrs. Obake's NASCAR approach to highway driving, Sturgis is home long before me. When I come in, he's helping my dad make supper.
They bustle about in the kitchen, muttering in low voices, while I rub my aching knees with ointment and stretch out on the couch. I think they're talking about gazebos and patios and whatnot. Sturgis takes a lot more interest in my dad's work than I do. Yogi hops up on the couch and tries to lick the menthol ointment off of me, which is one of his more disgusting habits.
I finish reading Their Eyes Were Watching God, which ends
with the woman's third and favorite husband getting bitten by a rabid dog and her living in disgrace because she has to kill him when he was all rabid and crazy. It makes me wonder why great literature always has to end horribly. Can't anyone live happily ever after?
Also, the stuff with the dog makes me think about Sturgis and his dog bites, and Peter's mumbo jumbo about spirit animals and all that. I've never been bitten by anything interesting. Not even a radioactive spider.
Dinner is stuffed squash. The squash isn't stuffed with anything that weird—just ground beef, onions, and a bunch of spices. It's one of my dad's better meals. I'd think maybe Sturgis was giving him some advice, except that Sturgis will eat anything.
“So are you going to tell me about the game?” Dad asks.
I'm too tired to talk but halfheartedly describe the game. I compliment Adam's pitching but say that in the end he was no match for Sturgis.
“I didn't pitch in the end,” Sturgis reminds me, still brooding about getting pulled in the last inning.
“Huh?” my dad asks.
“I pinch-hit for Sturgis and let Rita close the game.”
“Who's this Rita? You have a girl on the team?”
“A couple,” I tell him.
“Well, what do you know?”
It stuns me to realize my dad has never seen all of us play, not even for a full practice. He's really supportive at home, but he's been busy with his new job, plus trying to get his business off the ground. My dad's a workaholic. Even when there's no real work to do, he just creates busywork for himself.
“I got stuff to do,” says Sturgis when he's done eating. He shoves his plate aside and goes off to the office, maybe to e-mail his grandma.
“He's a bit of an odd duck,” my dad says in a low voice, “but he's a good kid, don't you think? They told me he might be trouble, but I haven't seen it.”
“He is,” I tell him, but the way it comes out, it's not clear which statement I'm agreeing with.
“You all right?” I ask Sturgis when we're getting ready for bed.
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“You were sort of upset about the game.”
Mudville Page 14