Mudville Page 7

  “I love this one!” my dad says when one of the shows comes on. He points at the TV with a chicken leg and starts to explain to Sturgis how the actor playing a minor character went on to be someone else in a different TV show.

  He hasn't been this happy since the rain stopped. I don't know if this is better or worse than stressing out about his business, but it's definitely messier.

  It keeps on not raining. On Saturday, I call Steve and we head down to the park to chuck the ball around. I bring Sturgis, and Steve brings a bunch of guys, including Tim and Miggy. They nod hello to Sturgis, but I can guess they're a little peeved about the tantrum he threw at the rec center.

  We don't have enough gloves to go around, so I hand mine off to Tim. It's good for a catcher to toughen up his hands anyway. Sturgis's pitches are a little hot to handle, though, even when he means to throw them soft. He doesn't say much, just catches the ball and throws it back, always with a little steam on it.

  Tim and Miggy keep throwing the ball in the mud and over our heads. I show them how to put their fingers on the ball properly, and pretty soon they're throwing straight. Straighter anyway.

  “When do we get to hit?” asks Kazuo. He's one of the new guys. I don't know him that well because he's a year behind me in school.

  “I brought a bat,” I tell him. “It'll be good to get some swings in.”

  First we have to pace out where the mound ought to be, then estimate where the bases are. We just draw Xs in the mud for the bases and kick a little mud around for the pitcher's mound.

  I put on my catcher's mitt and get behind the so-called plate, and Steve throws some soft stuff at this other sixth grader named David. David swings and misses on the first five or six pitches. Finally, he makes contact, and the ball rolls through the mud, back to Steve.

  “I got a hit!” he says, running to first base.

  I laugh. “Only because we don't have a first baseman,” I tell him. “Normally, you'd be out by a mile.”

  Kazuo has better instincts. He doesn't swing at every pitch, and when he does, he takes a good swing. He knocks what might be a bona fide hit up the middle, but he drops the bat and runs to third.

  “You need to go that way,” I yell to Kazuo, pointing at first base.

  “Sorry,” Kazuo says, looking bewildered. “I think I got confused because I was batting left-handed.”

  “You were batting right-handed,” I tell him. “Don't you know left from right?”

  “Well, sure,” he says, but he sounds a little unsure.

  “Wait a second,” I say. “You said you were batting left. Do you mean you can also bat right? I mean, you were really batting right-handed, but do you mean you can also bat left?”

  He looks more confused than ever.

  “Can you bat both ways?” I ask him.

  “Sure!” he says. “I can do everything both ways. I can write letters with both hands, draw, eat, everything. I can even throw both-handed. I think that's why I get confused. It's all the same to me.”

  Sturgis takes a few swings, too, but can't catch up with the pitch.

  “Maybe he can scare the ball with his face,” David says to Kazuo, who shakes his head and kicks at the ground in disgust. Sturgis turns and glares at them both. When he swings again, he's way out in front. He swears and drops the bat in the mud.

  “Hey,” I say, picking up the bat, wishing I had something to wipe off the mud.

  “Sorry, Roy.” He takes the bat from me and wipes the mud on his shorts before handing it back. “Can I pitch now?”

  “Sure. Steve, let Sturgis pitch to you.”

  Steve trades places with Sturgis, and I signal for the fastball. Sturgis scorches one in there, and Steve steps back in surprise.

  “Strike one!” I call.

  “No way,” Steve says, shaking his head.

  “It had the corner.” I toss the ball back to Sturgis and signal for another fastball over the plate. Sturgis throws one even harder, right in the zone. Steve flails at it and misses. I toss the ball back while Steve shakes his head in disbelief and tries to get better footing in the muddy batter's box.

  “He throws hard,” Steve says with respect.

  I signal for a change-of-pace pitch, but Sturgis throws another fastball. Steve nails it but hits it foul.

  “I got it!” David yells, running off to fetch it like an enthusiastic golden retriever.

  I trek out to the mound to talk to Sturgis.

  “You do know the signals, right?”

  He looks at me as if I'm crazy.

  “When I hold up one finger, I'm saying to throw a fastball,” I explain. “When I hold up two fingers, it means throw a curveball. When I wiggle three fingers, it means throw a changeup. It's classic baseball stuff.”

  “A changeup?”

  I sigh, not getting how he could throw so well and not know the basics of pitching. “Put another finger on the ball and throw it just like a fastball. The finger slows it down a smidgeon. It's called a change-of-pace pitch, or changeup for short.”

  “Oh, you mean a junkball.” He wrinkles his nose like I've just asked him to throw a dog turd. “Why would I want to throw junkballs?”

  “To fool that batter.”

  “Nah, I don't play that way. I don't need to trick any-one.”

  “It's part of the game,” I explain. “It's not trickery, it's strategy.”

  David comes loping back with the ball and tosses it to Sturgis. Sturgis holds the ball with the right grip for a changeup and looks at me as if I am nuts. I notice for the first time how long his fingers are. The kid is born to pitch, I think. He has the hands of Mariano Rivera.

  “Try it,” I tell him.

  I trot back to the plate and get in position. I wiggle my fingers, and Sturgis tries the changeup. The ball lands about a foot in front of me.

  “We'll work on that.” I fetch the ball, wipe it off on my shirt, and toss it back.

  Sturgis pitches another fastball. Steve gets under it and pops it straight up. I just park under it until it plops into my glove.

  “My turn!” I flip the ball back to Sturgis and pass my catcher's gear to Steve. I'm eager to try hitting Sturgis's fastball.

  I've been timing it mentally and give the first pitch a pretty good knock to deep short.

  “Yeah!” I exclaim, pumping my fist on my way to first. “Move me over, Miggy!”

  Miggy swings at the first pitch and bounces it right back to Sturgis. Sturgis realizes he has no first baseman to throw to and throws to me instead. Being a good sport, I catch it bare-handed and tag the bag to put Miggy out.

  “I guess I can play first base now.” Miggy takes the ball from me and tosses it back to Sturgis.

  “Move me over, David!” I holler as he takes the bat and steps into the batter's box.

  Sturgis throws one pitch, hard and inside, nailing David in the chest. He drops the bat with a whimper and rubs his chest. I'm not sure if it was a mistake or an on-purpose. I can't tell by looking at Sturgis. He just stands calmly on the mound, as if waiting for David to get back in the batter's box.

  “I get to go to first,” David finally says, and walks slowly to the base, still rubbing his sore chest, while I advance to second. I guess he moved me over, like I asked him to.

  Kazuo steps back to the plate, and Sturgis quickly strikes him out. “Inning's over,” he says. He strides off, giving David a quick look that says there was nothing accidental about that plunk. David looks away and kind of toes the ground, not wanting to get into a fight with a kid a head taller than him.

  Steve is too excited to notice. “This is great! We should get teams together and play a game.”

  “We need to get this park cleaned up first,” I point out. “We can't play a proper game in this mess.”

  “Ah, it's just a little grass and some dirt. No big deal.”

  When I get home, my father is in good spirits. He's chopping celery for what he calls his world-famous green bean chili. I know because of the green bean
s and cans of tomato soup on the counter. He's dropping bits of taco meat down to Yogi, who loves the stuff.

  “Roy,” he asks, “what does one do when it rains?”

  “Sell umbrellas!” I say automatically.

  “What if it doesn't rain?” he asks.

  “Play baseball?” I venture.

  “Exactly!” He points at me. “You are the one who de-serves credit for this. This morning, you couldn't wait to get out of the house. The sun was out. You are a boy. You wanted to play baseball.”

  “Um, what do I get credit for?”

  “I was stuck in my little world of rain,” my dad says. “Rain Redirection Systems require rain, so I didn't mind rain. But rain is wet, Roy. It's wet and bothersome. People would rather have it not rain, so they can do stuff. I forgot that people do stuff.”

  “They do?”

  “Baseball. Tennis. Croquet. Boccie ball. Barbecues. Sun-bathing. Roy, people here have lost their yards, their tennis courts, their boccie ball courts, their barbecues, their decks and patios. What's more, nobody in town is left to give them those things. Why not me? I have tools, I have staff, and I have materials. It's just a matter of remembering what people do when it doesn't rain.”

  “So you're going into the tennis court business?”

  “Landscaping, small construction projects. Why, I bet I can even use all that plastic for something. Covering swimming pools, maybe. Roy, it's just a matter of matching your business to the weather.”

  “Sure.” I'm glad he's feeling better. My dad is nothing if not an optimist. He really believes everything will turn out well, and he's usually right, except in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Dad, I wonder if I can use some of my money. I want to buy grass seed.”

  “Sure, sure. You know where it is.”

  “I won't need all of it. Just enough to buy some grass seed.”

  “Hey, it's your money. Besides, when it doesn't rain, you gotta play baseball, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Tell you what,” he says. “I'm heading to the home and garden store in Sutton for some supplies on Monday. Why don't you ride along? You can buy the seed there.”

  “Sure. That'll be great. I'll even go down and start planting grass when we get back.”

  “Do you want this chili with water chestnuts? For a little added crunch?”

  “However you like it.” I hurry to the office before I become any more of an accomplice.

  When I open the desk drawer, I see two paychecks. One is mine, clean and crisp. The other check is crumpled and creased, made out to Sturgis Nye.

  Sunday morning, Sturgis is up, showered, and nicely dressed before I even roll out of bed.

  “I hope you don't mind if I use the shoes again,” he says. He's already wearing them.

  “Not at all. Grandma duty?”

  “Just have to get the basket together.”

  “Watch out for wolves.”

  Pretty soon the two of them are roaring out of the driveway, and I'm all by myself for another lazy Sunday. I decide to mess around on the computer until the Cubs are on. Today they're playing the Brewers, the other perennial noncontender in the NL Central. It's certainly a can't-miss game.

  Speaking of perennial noncontenders, I check my e-mail and find that Adam has been to his game with the Royals. He tells me a very special baseball is on its way to me but won't tell me who signed it. He's attached a couple of digital photographs. One is of him and a Royals pitcher named Mike Wood. The other is of him and his Little League All-Star team sitting in the dugout at what I guess is the Kansas City ballpark.

  I reply and find myself writing a pretty long e-mail. I tell him about the sudden lack of rain and the Fourth of July and Rita. I realize again I've avoided talking about Sturgis and wonder why that is. It's not because I don't like him. It's just that I have a hard time describing him, I think.

  “I know this kid who's got a heck of an arm,” I add to the e-mail at last. “He can't work a curveball, though, so you got nothing to worry about.”

  My dad shakes me awake in the morning.

  “Did you forget that today was a workday?”

  I can't formulate words yet, so I wave at the window, where the sunlight is shining through the blinds, promising another great day. It's a great day I'm not ready to greet. I flop back into bed to sleep for another five or six hours.

  “You have to plant a baseball field,” my father reminds me. “You're going to cash your check, buy grass seed, and plant the field.” He springs the blinds open, flooding the room with hateful sunlight. “You need a baseball field if you want to play baseball.”

  I wake up a bit and glance at the clock, then wake all the way up, realizing how late it is.

  “Five minutes,” I tell him, and I'm probably ready in four.

  “Is Sturgis coming?” I ask as my father hands me a toasted waffle sandwich (don't ask) and we head out to his truck.

  “He went off with Frank,” he tells me. “Frank has some work to do and wanted Sturgis to help out.”

  I don't know what kind of work Frank has to do, but I guess I can't blame him for hiring Sturgis instead of me. He's a better worker, no doubt about that.

  There are long lines at the bank, so it's maybe an hour before I can cash my check and get out of there. It's nothing compared to the home and garden store in Sutton, though. It's mobbed with people from Moundville, buying grills, lawn ornaments, and everything else.

  They seem to be out of grass seed, though. All I see is rows of empty pallets.

  Despite the crowd, my dad is able to nab a salesman. He's good at stuff like that.

  “Can you please help my son?”

  “Yeah, of course. Two seconds.” The guy finishes unloading a box of stone porcupines.

  “I have to pick up a few things, Roy. Be right back.” My dad wanders off down the aisle.

  “We need grass seed,” I tell the salesman when the porcupines are all in order.

  “We were cleaned out by yesterday,” he says. “We're getting a shipment in later this week, but it'll go fast.”

  “Can you set some aside for us?”

  “I can try. What kind of grass do you want, and how much?”

  “We want to seed a baseball field. What kind of seed should we use, and how much do you think it'll take?”

  “Well,” he says, “a good rule of thumb is ten pounds of seed for every thousand square feet. For sports fields that get a lot of use, you want something like Kentucky bluegrass or rye. Probably a mix. How big is the field?”

  I shake my head. “I'm not sure. Regular size, I guess.”

  “Well, how far is it to the outfield wall?”

  “Two hundred feet, maybe,” I say with a shrug. I'm embarrassed that I've come so unprepared. “Maybe bigger.”

  “All right,” he says, rolling his eyes up and doing mental math, which I'm sure involves pi and other mysteries. “So that's going to be maybe thirty-six thousand square feet, with some foul territory, right?”

  “If you say so,” I say.

  “Just a ballpark estimate,” he says with a wink, and I'm sorry my dad isn't there to enjoy his pun.

  “So how much will that cost?” I ask.

  “It's 28 bucks a bag.” He looks up as he does the math in his head. “So 36 times 28 is… Well, you got 28 times 30 and that's 840, plus another 168…. Kid, you're looking at at least a thousand bucks.”

  “Wow” is all I can say. It's going to cost a lot more than I have.

  “What do you know about planting a field of that size?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Were you just going to throw handfuls of seed around?”

  “Um, sort of.”

  “Look,” he says, “it's not that easy. First you have to level the field. You can use metal rakes for that, if it's not too bad right now, but it's better to use heavy machinery. You also have to make sure there's good drainage, for when it rains.” I can't help but laugh, and he stops.

  “So
rry, didn't mean to snort at you. It's just that I'm from Moundville.”

  “Assuming it rains a normal amount, of course,” he con-tinues. “You'll need some hoes for that and some aerators and a spreader.” He gets me a brochure that explains it all, with recommended products for greener lawns. Grass seed, fertilizer, weed control, insect control. The salesman goes on to explain the process, and my head spins as the hours and dollars add up in my mind.

  “Look that over, and let me know if you have questions,” the salesman says, and wanders off.

  I look glumly at the brochure and get the worst shock of all.

  “Grass will start to grow in seven to fourteen days,” says the small print under the picture of a bag of grass seed. “Avoid heavy usage for four months.”

  Four months! That'll be the middle of fall, and that's if we plant today, which we can't. It'll be next summer before we can actually play baseball. You hear the expression about a guy's heart sinking, but you don't know what it means until it happens to you. My heart sinks right into my stomach, down through the soles of my feet, and into the hard tile floor of the store. By the time my dad comes back, it's some-where around the core of the earth.

  “How did it go?” he asks.

  “It's impossible,” I tell him. I try to recap everything the salesman told me, but it's a muddle in my head. “It's a lot more work and money and time than I ever thought,” I tell him as I put the pamphlet in my back pocket.

  “Do you wonder why I wanted you and Sturgis to work for me this summer?” my dad asks me as we drive away from the store.

  I shrug. “Sturgis said we weren't helping that much. He thinks we were just in Frank's way.”

  “Sturgis said that?”

  “Not angry like.” I don't want Sturgis to sound like a brat. “He just didn't see that we were making much difference. He still worked hard.”

  “He's a pretty sharp kid,” says my dad. “It's true. I didn't expect you to make much difference. I just thought it would be a good experience for you. You're the same age I was when the rains started. It put my dad out of work. Well, you know what happened.”