Mudville Page 10

  “Does Sturgis play baseball, too?” she asks.

  “Oh yeah. He's a pretty good pitcher.”

  “Of course he is,” she says. “Like father, like son.”

  “You know about his dad?”

  “He was a big leaguer, Roy.”

  “Yeah, I know. I guess I'm just surprised you knew about that.” I wonder if I like it better when she's a little drunk and nonsensical or cold sober and creepy and knowing.

  “Tell him I said hi,” she says. We say we love each other, and she's off to fly to wherever she's going. I might find out when I get a postcard.

  “My mom says hi,” I tell Sturgis later.

  “That was nice of her,” he says.

  We now have enough players to field a team, even though one is Miggy's kid brother. Tim can run down fly balls pretty well, so I put him in right field. Rita is another story. She's terrible in the field. She can hit a ball okay, on account of her tennis experience, but she couldn't catch a cold. I figure I'll just have to use her as a pinch hitter—until she tosses me the ball. The ball comes right at my chest, then drops into the dirt.

  “Sorry, Captain! I hurt my elbow once playing tennis. I've never been able to throw right since.”

  “Do that again.” I toss the ball back to her. She throws it again, the same way. It's amazing. The ball soars straight at me, then just drops out of the air like a narcoleptic bird.

  “Hey, Sturgis, watch. Throw it to him,” I tell Rita, tossing the ball back. She does, and Sturgis reaches out for it, just to have it die in front of his glove.

  “Pretty good junkball,” he says respectfully.

  “It's not a junkball, it's a backwards curveball,” I tell him. “It comes in on you instead of tailing away. It's called a screwball. Practically nobody can throw it. Rita throws it perfectly, though. It breaks hard.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “I think you'll be pretty good out of the bullpen,” I tell her. I like the idea of having Sturgis throw heat, then having Rita come out with her screwball.

  “Between the two of you, I think we can beat anyone.”

  “Thanks, Captain!” she says. Did I mention it kills me when she calls me Captain?

  Toward the end of practice, I look up and see PJ. kind of loitering by the margin of the field.

  “Want to grab a bat and take a few swings?” I call over.

  Usually I have to plead with him. This time he sprints over. Maybe watching us all flail at pitches has made him eager to show us how it's done.

  He does, too. Sturgis throws a few hard fastballs, and P.J. sails them into the outfield. It's about time our outfielders got some practice.

  “Let me try,” says Rita. She throws a few pitches, and P.J. swings right over them, turning himself around.

  “You pitch good!” he says. Rita smiles, and her eyes twinkle a bit, and I resist an urge to take the bat from P.J. and knock him silly.

  “Show me that screwball,” Sturgis asks that evening. We're in the yard, tossing the ball around.

  “Let's just practice the changeup.”

  He frowns and throws a couple of lazy off-speed pitches. “I get it now. I want to learn that screwball. Or at least a curveball.”

  “Sturgis, you throw really hard. You work in a good changeup, nobody will be able to hit you. You don't need a curveball.”

  “Why don't you pitch?” he asks. “You seem to know so much.”

  “I did pitch a little, back when I played in Sutton, but I guess I like catching better. Anyway, I want to play every day. I've missed too much baseball to sit in the dugout four days out of five or wait around in the bullpen to pitch one or two innings.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Throw me a five.”

  He tries but delivers a regular fastball.

  “Try counting,” I suggest as I toss it back. “You know, count from one to whatever pitch you want to throw and imagine the pitch gaining speed as you count. Then let 'er fly.”

  We work our way up from one to ten that way, with Sturgis counting each time and adding a bit more Tabasco to each pitch.

  “Throw me a five,” I say after we've been through the drill a couple of times.

  He counts to five and throws a good off-speed pitch.

  “Now throw me a seven.”

  He fires again. It's a bit faster than the first, but still not full speed.

  “How about a ten?”

  He rears back and lets go. I brace myself for the sting, and a second later a marshmallow pops into my glove. He's thrown a perfect changeup. It looked like a fastball and just lost speed on its way to my glove. It was a thing of beauty. The best hitters in the world would swing through a changeup like that.

  “I told you, I got the junkball figured out,” he says. “Now I want to learn that screwball.”

  “You'll strike a lot of guys out without a screwball,” I tell him. “I'm just glad I won't have to hit your pitching.”

  I'm feeling okay about our team. We have a pretty good battery in me and Sturgis, and we have Rita if Sturgis gets tired or runs into trouble. Sure, we don't have anything like a pitching rotation, but we can field a strong team for one day, which is all we have to do, if we ever have an opponent.

  Our defense is improving, too. Kazuo is solid at second base—when he throws to the right base anyway—and Steve is excellent at shortstop. David is getting good at first base, scooping balls out of the dirt and snatching them out of the air. Shannon is Torii Hunter out there in center field, and Tim does okay in right field.

  Our problems are down the third base line. Miggy's at third and is always getting in Steve's way. Carlos is in left field. He's ten years old and can't throw a ball back to the in-field without bouncing it a couple of times. I try putting Anthony out there, but he tends to watch Shannon instead of the infield. Rita has her trick pitch but can't throw straight, so she's useless in the field. I feel like we're close, though.

  “If we just had any offense at all,” I tell Steve after practice one afternoon.

  “We have me,” he says. “We have you.”

  “Yeah, well…” We're both all right at the plate, but we don't have anyone who would really scare a pitcher. Not the way P.J. does.

  “What would it take to get PJ. on board?” I ask.

  “He might be thinking about it. Did you see how he gets on with Rita?”

  “What?”

  “I think they dig each other. See, check it out.” He points out the dugout at the field. Sure enough, there's Rita, and there's P.J. Where did he come from? I wonder. They're just making small talk and whatever. The kind of thing I'm no good at.

  “On the other hand,” I say, “I wouldn't want to quit the Pirates if I was him.”

  Steve might be right. PJ. shows up the next day wearing workout clothes and carrying his own glove.

  “Where do you want me, Captain?” It's not as cute when he says it.

  “I guess we could use a left fielder.”

  “Right,” he says. “I mean left.”

  I'm almost relieved that PJ. is a liability in the outfield. There's a reason he's called the Bat and not the Mitt. I have Steve pitch for a while so we can get good swings and knock the ball around, while the fielders practice running them down. Carlos can't catch anything, but he's usually close enough to have a try. PJ. can't get a good read on a ball, though, and is oftener than not twenty feet away when it falls.

  He can't throw either. He throws left-handed, just like he bats, but I wonder if he shouldn't try throwing with his right hand. I don't know that it would be any weaker or clumsier than his left.

  “When do the outfielders get to bat?” Shannon hollers from the outfield.

  “I guess now,” I holler back. Maybe I let the fielding practice run a little long since PJ. looked so bad doing it.

  “Are we ever going to play a real game?” PJ. asks after prac-tice. So it's already “we.” I guess that means he's joining the team, but I'm not as thrilled as I though
t I'd be. Not just because he seems to like Rita but because there's no designated-hitter rule in youth baseball.

  We're done practicing, but everyone is still hanging around, catching their breath. It's about ninety degrees, and we're all a bit spent.

  “A real game would be cool,” I agree. “It'll be good to see how we do.”

  “I think we'll get slaughtered,” says Steve, “but I want to see how bad.”

  “I think we should play SJA,” says Sturgis.

  “St. James Academy?” Steve looks at him in disbelief. “For one thing, that's a high school.”

  “JV, I mean,” Sturgis explains.

  “They're still older than us,” says Steve. “Besides, school's not even in session.”

  “They have these clinics throughout the summer,” I tell him. I know St. James's athletic schedule by heart. “But you're right. They're still going to be older than us.”

  “So?” Sturgis shrugs.

  “So they won't want to play us, and even if they do, they'll destroy us. I don't mind us losing a game, but we don't need to be humiliated in the process.”

  “Well,” he says, “they do want to play us. We already set it up.”

  “What? Who's we?”

  “My dad,” says P.J. “He talked to their coach on the phone. He said we were a new team in Moundville and just wanted to scrimmage. They want to host us. They need scrimmages, too. They're having a clinic this weekend, it turns out.”

  “Your dad talked to St. James?”

  “Sturgis asked him to set it up. We figured it was your idea.”

  “Sturge?” I look over at him, but he pretends to be so involved with his shoelaces he doesn't notice anything is going on.

  “My dad knows the coaches, is all,” P.J. explains. “He coaches the Pirates, and some of those guys end up at St. James.”

  “Well, did he tell his coach buddies how old we are?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “Anyway, we're going to scrim-mage this Saturday, at their stadium.”

  “How are we even going to get there?” I ask.

  “My dad will drive,” says PJ. “That is, if you guys want to play. We can always back out.”

  “Heck, Iwant to play,” says David.

  “Me too,” says Steve. “My dad will love this. He went to St. James.”

  “Let's say no parents this time,” I say. “Except your dad.” I nod at PJ.

  “Yeah,” says Kazuo. “Otherwise, they'll see how bad we are.”

  Even Steve sees my point. “My parents cost me an error at the Camp Classic,” he remembers. “They were hollering at me to catch the ball, and it kind of distracted me.”

  “Yeah, I remember that.” It was me that scored a run on that error.

  When I finally ask who's in, there's no need to count hands. There's hoots and hollers and hats thrown in the air, and it's clear the game is on.

  Peter shows up early Saturday in his old, beat-up truck. PJ. is riding shotgun.

  “Are we even going to fit in that thing?” David wants to know.

  Peter clambers out to open the back door. “My son's team has ridden in it. It's tight, but you just kind of squish together.”

  We let Shannon and Rita ride in the cabin, and the rest of us pile into the back, sitting on the hard metal floor, with no air-conditioning and no windows. I bet the Pirates ride like that across town, not twenty miles.

  “Remind me why we didn't get rides from our folks?” Steve asks, probably thinking about the surround-sound stereo and comfy seats of his dad's SUV.

  “You're sitting on my hand,” says PJ. It's not much of an answer, but it's the only one Steve gets.

  It is a hot and stuffy ride, but we survive. When we pull in the parking lot behind the St. James baseball field, one of their assistant coaches comes out, telling Peter to move the truck. He's startled when we come scrambling out of the back.

  “What? You don't mean to tell me … ?” He shouts over the brick wall at someone, and soon the St. James Academy coach and a couple of their players come out to see what's going on. I've met the coach, when my dad and I looked at the school, but I don't think he remembers me.

  “Hey, Phil!” Peter slams the back door to the truck and makes his way around to shake the coach's hand.

  “Sorry,” says the assistant coach. “I didn't realize this was your team … um, vehicle.”

  “The regular team bus is in the shop,” Peter jokes.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” says one of the kids as soon as he sees us. He has hair so blond it's nearly white. He looks to be about fifteen years old. We're in way over our heads.

  “On the phone, you made me think you were high school kids.” The coach frowns. “We can't play you guys.”

  “We just want to play the best team around, and that's you,” I tell him. The coach definitely doesn't remember me, I decide. When I was here with my dad, he said I was exactly the kind of young man St. James was looking for. Now he can't even look atme, let alone for me.

  “It's just a friendly game,” Peter says with a fake-looking smile. “No big deal.”

  The two coaches whisper between themselves, shaking their heads.

  “What happened to your face?” the blond kid asks Sturgis.

  Sturgis doesn't answer.

  “Hey, ugly, I'm talking to you!”

  Sturgis still doesn't speak but kicks at the ground with his sneaker. His scars become starker as his face flushes.

  “What happened to your face?” David asks the older boy. “Was your mother scared by a giant butt when she was pregnant?”

  The coaches break huddle. The assistant says something quietly to the blond boy, who saunters back through the gate.

  “The boys are taking a vote,” the coach says. “They may not want to play.”

  “Why not?” asks Sturgis.

  “It isn't fair to either one of us. You'll get humiliated, and we'll be called bullies for beating you.”

  “What if we win?” asks Sturgis.

  The coach just laughs. “Well, that's not going to happen, but hypothetically, it would make us a laughingstock. See? It's a no-win situation for us. Either we're seen as bullies or we're seen as losers.”

  “It's just a scrimmage game,” says Peter. “It's not like any-one's even here.”

  “We get a lot of visitors,” he says importantly. “Scouts, the media. You have no idea.”

  The blond boy returns, grinning. “We voted not to play you kids. It was unanimous.”

  I'm sure we didn't get a fair vote. He probably made us sound like second graders.

  “Chickens!” David stamps his foot. I hope he doesn't start making cluck-cluck noises and flapping his arms, or it's going to be really hard to convince them we're not second graders.

  “I have an idea,” says Sturgis. “How about you give us one run and try to score two against us? We won't even bat. If you score two runs, you win.”

  “How many innings?” the coach asks.

  “Three innings,” says Sturgis coolly. “Once through the lineup.”

  “It'll still be a slaughter,” says the coach.

  “We'll quit after you score the second run,” says Sturgis. “You can't slaughter us. Nobody can say you did.”

  “What's the point?” The coach shrugs. “What's in it for us?”

  “You really want to see this young man pitch,” Peter says. I can't remember if Peter has seen Sturgis pitch, but PJ. might have told him how good Sturgis is. “Better to see him now than when he's pitching against you in a year or two.”

  “He's that good, huh?”

  “The best I've seen, for his age.” I guess both coaches know Peter's taken his teams to the Little League World Series a couple of times.

  “We can still get a full practice in,” says the assistant.

  “What the heck,” the coach says. “Let's go ask the guys.”

  The St. James Academy kids are only a couple of years older than us. They might as well be the New York
Yankees, though. They look as big and confident as Murderers’ Row. They even have pinstripes on their uniforms. Peter says hello to a couple of them and shakes their hands. Those must be the former Pirates.

  The coach explains the rules of the scrimmage, and they all like the idea. The blond kid is the only one who votes against it.

  “We'll score two quick runs and be over with it,” says one of the St. James players. He looks familiar, and I realize why. He looks like his brother, who's been drafted by the Cincinnati Reds and is tearing his way through the minors. The newspapers have regular updates on his progress.

  “Put our run on the scoreboard,” says Sturgis.

  The assistant coach disappears, and soon the visitors’ board shows a 1 for the top of the first inning.

  “Let's play ball!” the coach shouts.

  “I think I'll keep you on the bench,” I tell P.J., who's about to trot out to left field. Since we don't get to bat, there's not much point to having him on the team.

  “Okay,” he says, a bit too cheerfully. I realize when every-one else is in place that I've stupidly left him on the bench with Rita, where he can flirt shamelessly. I feel helpless.

  The assistant coach returns with umpire's gear, to call strikes and balls.

  “You'll give us a fair strike zone?” I ask him as I take my spot behind the plate.

  “Don't test me, boy.”

  I crouch down and take about a dozen warm-up tosses from Sturgis. I see Miggy and little Carlos off to the left and take a deep breath. We'll have to pitch really aggressively to the right-handed batters, I think.

  I smirk behind my mask when I realize Sturgis is throwing all medium stuff to warm up, pretending it's his fastball. He's setting them up. He has the instincts of a poker hustler.

  I'm all the happier to see the leadoff hitter is the snotty kid from the parking lot.

  I show one finger, then flash five twice, telling Sturgis to bring on the ten.

  Sturgis flares his nostrils, takes a deep breath, and brings it. The blond kid jumps back, feigning alarm.