Mudville Read online

  He does give up a leadoff double, but the next two batters fly out to left. My heart stops beating for a moment when Anthony loses the second one in the sun, but Shannon heroically glides in and snatches the ball just before it bops him in the nose. The runner moves up to third on that one.

  Sturgis comes up to the plate, and things get a little weird.

  First Kazuo nails Sturgis right in the butt. It's obviously intentional. Sturgis glares, and Kazuo glares back.

  “Throw at me,” Sturgis grumbles as he walks to first.

  “Throw at us again and see what happens,” shouts Kazuo, kicking the pitching rubber.

  The umpires meet again and try to talk while the crowd jabbers and buzzes. Bobby goes out to plead our case to them. Finally, the umps decide to let Kazuo off with a warning.

  If that's not weird enough, when Kazuo gets ready to pitch to the next batter, Sturgis walks off the base and heads for the dugout. Kazuo blinks and throws the ball to David. David runs after Sturgis and tags him out in foul territory. (He's out anyway at that point, but David doesn't know it.)

  Peter barks at Sturgis while the rest of the team just looks at him in disbelief.

  “We have three runs!” Sturgis shouts. “How many do you think we need? Do you think they're going to score four runs on me in one inning?” He grabs his glove, tosses his helmet, and heads for the mound. Peter just shakes his head in sorrow and returns to the dugout.

  Sturgis strikes out Tim to start the bottom of the sixth. He's getting tired but is still effective, throwing fastballs mixed with changeups. He takes a deep breath before each pitch and hurls the ball as if it's a fastball. The hitter is always guessing when to swing.

  Something about his breathing, I remember. Google noticed something.

  I watch Sturgis pitch to Google. He takes a breath and pitches the ball. It's an off-speed pitch, maybe a seven. It's ruled a strike.

  Sturgis gets the ball back, takes a deep breath, and pitches. Another changeup, a mite faster. Maybe an eight. Google fouls it off for strike two.

  What am I looking for?

  Sturgis breathes in slow and deep, then lets the pitch fly.

  “Ten!” I shout.

  Google flails at the ball and fouls it off.

  “He's counting,” I tell everyone. “He's counting how fast he's going to throw it.”

  “Counting?” Anthony asks.

  “Yes. He's counting. It's how I taught him to gauge his pitches. He doesn't know he's doing it.”

  “What?” Kazuo leans in to get a better look at Sturgis.

  I pass David in the hole as Google takes a ball.

  “Watch him breathe,” I whisper. “He counts the speed of his pitches while he inhales. Sit on the changeup.”

  “Huh?”

  “I'll explain in a bit.”

  I go on deck and tell Shannon. She gives Sturgis a side-long glance and nods.

  Google takes a time-out. He looks at me curiously.

  I point at my nose, breathe in, and surreptitiously point at Sturgis. Google smiles and nods, which means he knows all about it. He's just waiting for the pitch he wants.

  Sturgis takes a breath—I count to six—and pitches. Google times it right, getting the barrel of the bat out to lay down a bunt. The third baseman is too far back to play it, and Sturgis doesn't even come off the mound. Google speeds to first. The crowd stands up and cheers.

  “He counts the speed of his pitch!” says David in sudden comprehension.

  “It'll still be hard to hit,” I tell him. “But it's something to go by.”

  Shannon goes to the plate, watching Sturgis carefully. He takes a long, deep breath—a ten, at least—and fires. She takes the pitch for a strike.

  Sturgis gets the ball back, takes a quicker breath, and lets go.

  Shannon swings, connecting solidly, chopping the ball over his head. She makes it safely to first, and Google gets safely to second.

  Sturgis wheels around and glares at his shortstop again.

  It's not his fault, I think. Don't look at him. Don't be like your old man.

  Peter walks out to the mound again. This time there's no friendly pat on the back. He just says a few words, Sturgis snaps something in retort, and Peter stalks back to the dugout.

  Sturgis shakes it off, takes a deep breath, and pitches to David.

  David sits on the changeup, taking a couple of faster pitches until Sturgis barely takes a short breath and lobs a soft one at him. You can see David's eyes widen as the grape-fruit comes to him, and he knocks the juice right out of it. The ball skips past the shortstop to shallow left field.

  Google flies around third and scores. When PJ. throws the ball all the way home from left field, Shannon moves up to third base and David moves on to second. The Moundville fans stomp and roar and whistle. The radio van blares that it's been a long time since we rocked and rolled, which it has. Far too long, the crowd seems to think.

  Sturgis is visibly shaken, looking from fielder to fielder, wondering who to blame for this new disaster. I almost feel sorry for him.

  Peter takes a few steps out on the field, but Sturgis waves him back to the dugout.

  When Kazuo comes to the plate, Sturgis just snorts and throws a fastball at his stomach. Kazuo jumps back, letting the ball graze his shirt. It's just enough to take first base and not enough to hurt.

  The umpires convene again. Peter doesn't even bother arguing with them, but they just decide to let Sturgis off with a warning. One more hit batter and he'll be gone.

  I've barely had my time on deck, so I dawdle getting into the batter's box, taking practice swings and thinking about the speed of his various pitches. I'm not going to sit on the changeup, though. I'm going to sit on the fastball. I'll end this thing here and now, with one swing of the bat. Any-thing hit hard and fair can clear the bases and win the game.

  I go to the plate, all business. Sturgis glares at me, and I stare back coldly, waiting for the pitch. We aren't brothers or cousins or friends, my look tells him. Right now we're enemies, and your back is against the wall.

  He takes a deep breath. I count and know it's the pitch I want. He lets go, so I swing for the fences. I connect, hard, and the ball flies off the bat, carrying with it the hopes and dreams of thousands of fans as it soars into the summer sky.

  The celebration is held at the pizza parlor across the street. Bobby Fitz and Mr. Robinson treat us to pizza and ice cream, and there's loud, happy music playing, and an indescribable feeling of exuberance fills the air. The place is jammed to the rafters with people wanting to join in the fun. My dad is the only one missing. He had to get the tent and everything back to Sutton.

  “You're the toast of Moundville,” Mr. Robinson tells me when the umpteenth family comes by to shake my hand.

  So I didn't smash the scoreboard and circle the bases in slow motion in a shower of sparks, but my double cleared the bases and scored the go-ahead run. That was good enough for me.

  “Heck, he's the toast and the jam,” says Rita.

  “I think you're pretty jamming yourself, Foxey Lady,” I tell her. Our relationship has changed all at once into knowing looks and flirty comments and accidental touches. Whatever hesitation Rita had about being my girlfriend seems to have ended at the exact time we stopped being teammates. I'm having fun, but I'm also sort of in knots about it. I drink a gallon of root beer, but my mouth is still dry.

  “She definitely digs you,” Anthony whispers to me when Rita takes a little break from the table. That's what scares me, I think. He's got an easier role, admiring Shannon from afar. I'm in a position where I have to actually do something.

  I realize Shannon is missing. I wonder if she's gone off to celebrate with her family separately or if maybe she's just anxious about the first day of school tomorrow.

  “What happened to Shannon?” I ask Rita when she gets back.

  “I don't know,” she says. She shrugs just a little bit too theatrically for me to believe her, but Shannon's secrets do
n't interest me that much.

  When I get up myself, I see my mom wedged into a corner booth full of moping Sinister Bend fans. There's a few empty pitchers of beer on the table.

  “That was a great game, kid,” she tells me. She stands up awkwardly to give me a smooch and tousle my hair. I'm glad there's a throng of people between us and the rest of the team.

  “Are you going to be around much longer?” I ask her.

  “I'm afraid not, kid,” she says. “I'm taking a red-eye to Boston so I can work a flight to Dublin tomorrow.”

  “Well…,” I tell her. But whatever people say in these cases doesn't make it out. Have a nice flight? Have a nice life?

  “I was on my way to the, uh.” I gesture toward the rest-rooms.

  “All right,” she says. “Hey, you guys be good. Both of you, you're extraordinary.”

  When I'm washing my hands in the restroom, it occurs to me to wonder, Does she mean me and Sturgis, or me and my dad?

  There's no paper towels left, so I shake my hands dry and head back for my table. My mom and her friends are gone.

  Nobody's forgotten that school starts the next day, so even though the whole town was packed into the pizza place, by nine o'clock the restaurant starts to empty.

  “I'll see you soon,” Rita tells me when her parents come to collect her. She surreptitiously passes me a napkin with her cell phone number.

  “See you,” I tell her casually. I fold the napkin and put it neatly into my pocket. “I guess I'll head out, too.”

  “You need a ride?” Bobby asks.

  “It's a short walk,” I tell him. I figure a few moments of fresh air and solitude will do me good … clear my head and everything.

  As soon as I step outside, I notice a brisk wind has picked up. It's like the weather knows that summer is over and school's starting. Someone comes toward me, silhouetted against the lights, and for a very weird second I think it's the ghost of Ptan Teca coming to get me.

  “Hey, Roy,” the ghost says. A chill goes through me. I know better than to believe in ghosts, but it's a spooky moment.

  Then I realize it's just P.J.

  “Hey.” We slap hands like old friends.

  I wonder if he's moping around so he won't have to face his dad. A decent left fielder might have caught the ball I hit to left or at least thrown it back into the infield to keep Kazuo from scoring the go-ahead run. He seems to be taking it well, though.

  “It was fun today,” he tells me. “Great game. I love a good rundown. Nice hit at the end, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I know I'm supposed to be miserable, but I'm not. So we lost.” He shrugs. “My dad just takes it so seriously.”

  “Yeah, I know. He's a good guy, though. Maybe a little obsessed with baseball, but who isn't?”

  “Yeah, well… it's not just baseball to him,” he says. “He thinks he can, like, set things right. Avenge the past. Appease the spirits. He thought if we beat you guys, maybe it would settle something once and for all.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Who knows?” He shrugs. “Probably the end of the world.”

  “It was the double of doom.” I do my best Darth Vader voice, which isn't very good. We laugh until a particularly icy blast of wind hurls down Main Street and sucks the humor out of both of us.

  “Hey, you got a ride home?” Not that I can help him if he does need a ride.

  “I usually find a way,” he says, and nods at me before walking on, looking a bit like a ghost again before he disappears into the shadows.

  He's a weird duck, I think, but I'd still love to have that kid in my lineup.

  I notice a kind of swirling dusty whiteness in the streetlights.

  “I think it's snowing,” I announce to no one in particular. It hasn't snowed in Moundville since before I was born. It has only rained, even when it snowed all around us. Now it's snowing on September 4. Whatever angry spirits or meteorological oddities brought on the rain aren't finished yet. Maybe Ptan Teca was just taking a little break and is back for more.

  I don't know how long I stand there watching it. I'm hypnotized. It's so beautiful and silent, and I feel as if I'm in a snow globe.

  When I get home, my dad is crashed out in an armchair, watching the evening news. They're showing the highlights of the game.

  “It's the hero of the hour!” He jumps up and gives me a bear hug.

  “Thanks,” I tell him when I can finally breathe again.

  “They're replaying the whole thing on Channel 54. It's nearly done, but I'm taping it for you. I'll dump it on DVD later. You'll want this forever.” He looks tired and smells of charred hot dog. “Sorry I didn't make the party.”

  “I know you had to do stuff,” I tell him. “Did you sell a lot of hot dogs?”

  “Not enough to send you to St. James, but I can pay the bills this month.”

  “Good enough for me,” I tell him. “Hey, how is Sturgis doing?”

  “You mean he's not with you?”

  “The losing pitcher doesn't usually go to the victory party,” I tell him. “I figured he was with you.”

  “That's weird,” he says thoughtfully. “Hey, Shannon's parents called an hour ago. She's missing, too. You don't sup-pose they're hanging out somewhere, do you?”

  “I don't know.” I think about the day Rita and Shannon came over to visit, when Sturgis wasn't home. Rita making room in Mrs. Obake's SUV so Sturgis could ride home with Shannon. Shannon near tears when Sturgis quit the team and misting up again today when she watched him pitch. Rita acting mysterious about Shannon's whereabouts after today's game.

  Every one of those times, I was too preoccupied with my-self and baseball and Rita to think about an obvious alternative.

  “Chicks dig scars,” I say.

  “Huh?” says my dad.

  “I bet they're together,” I tell him.

  “Well, I guess I better go look for 'em,” my dad says. He gets up and heads for the front door.

  We take a quick drive around the town. The snow fills the canals and sweeps across fields of mud that have just become stubbly with new grass. The baseball field, where there was so much noise and excitement earlier, is now a soft white blanket. The new bleachers look like they came with long white cushions.

  “There's no footprints,” my dad points out.

  “Well, they've been there for a while.”

  He pulls over and parks. We cross the snowy field toward the dugouts. You can't see anything in the shadows, but I think I hear someone trying not to be heard.

  “Sturgis!” I shout.

  “Go away!” he shouts back.

  I can see a white face and long hair appear on the dugout steps, but it's Shannon.

  “Are you guys all right?” my dad calls.

  Shannon walks over to us. She's been crying. Shannon is kind of weepy, I've decided.

  “We're fine. He's just embarrassed. He gave up the winning runs, and … well, he also made the last out for them. He doesn't want to face you guys.”

  “You should go talk to him,” my dad says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You're his best friend. Tell him it's no big deal.”

  “I think you should go,” I tell him. “You're sort of his dad now. Anyway, you're his hero.”

  “You think so?”

  “Dad, he loves your cooking and laughs at your jokes. He's read all your books on home improvement. I honestly think he'd rather work for you than play baseball.”

  My dad looks at the dugout, about as confident as an American League pitcher coming to the plate in a National League ballpark. Finally, he heads over to tell Sturgis that everything is going to be all right, a smile plastered across his face.

  To me, that's his defining moment.

  They're in there for a long time. Shannon and I go to the other dugout so we can sit down. We sit quietly, Shannon still snuffling.

  “Rita kind of likes you,” she finally says to break up the silence.

  “I kn
ow,” I tell her. “I like her, too.”

  That's the extent of our small talk.

  At last, Dad and Sturgis come out of the visitors’ dugout, Sturgis leading the way. We go out, too, and meet them halfway.

  Sturgis scowls at me and knocks my hand away when I offer it to him.

  “You got a lucky hit,” he says. “Stupid left fielder should have had that.”

  Then his sneer twists into a smile, and I see he's putting me on.

  “Hey, they all look like line drives in the box score,” I tell him with a grin. I offer him my hand again, but instead of shaking it, he grabs it and pulls me into a clumsy hug.

  “We'll see you in the truck,” my dad says. He and Shannon go back across the field, leaving Sturgis and me alone in the baseball park snow globe.

  “So you and Shannon, huh?”

  “She's nice,” he says. “She came and talked to me after the game. One thing led to another.”

  “I've noticed that happens with girls.” Thinking about Rita makes me feel warm, even in the chilly air.

  “She's made this whole thing easier, I guess,” he admits.

  “Bring her to meet your dad. He won't feel so bad about you losing. He'll just brag that his boy is dating the second-hottest girl in town.”

  He laughs. “Roy, my dad doesn't care about that game anymore.”

  “What about you, then?” I wonder. “Why did you switch teams? I thought it was for your dad.”

  “I don't know,” he says. “Peter kind of talked me into it, told me it was my duty or my fate or whatever. When you were such a jerk about it, it got easier. I wanted to show you up.”

  I decide there's no point in arguing over who was a bigger jerk.

  “You did show me up,” I tell him. “You only lost because of Google.” I explain how the pint-sized third baseman noticed how Sturgis was tipping his pitches. “You got solved, but it wasn't by me. I just reaped the benefits.”

  “Can you fix it in time for Sutton Junior High to beat St. James Academy JV in the spring?” he asks.

  “We'll work on it.”

  When we get up the next morning for our first day of school, we learn that all the schools are closed in Sutton and Mound County on account of the snow. It's national news. Nowhere in the history of the United States, not even in North Dakota or Alaska, was the first day of school ever called on account of snow before.