Stealing home, p.15
Stealing Home, page 15
Duke rubbed his hands together. Let's get started! He strode over to where the men stood and gathered them around. Ned couldn't see anything he said, but when he watched Duke Dennison from the back, he looked like an orchestra conductor, his arms wide and animated.
Every now and then the men reared back in unison laughter, and Ned tried to imagine the joke. When Duke pointed left, their heads swung in one accord. When he brought Floyd to stand next to him, they offered a giant, respectful acknowledgment. Then, at the backhanded beckoning of the Duke, they shuffled toward the bleachers to sit with the women and wait to see just who would be worthy to be chosen.
The man was good.
Ned felt the smallest touch on his shoulder and turned to Ellie Jane.
Sure you don't want to be on a team?
He smiled. “Positive.”
Back at the bleachers, Duke and Floyd shook hands and adopted identical hands-on-hips stances on the third base line. After one long, craning look, Duke pointed to his first player.
Mr. Coleman.
The old station master got up from the bleachers and waddled himself to the field. Ned might never have noticed how disproportionately small the old man's hands were, except that Mr. Coleman held one fist high in triumph long after taking his place behind Duke.
Floyd chose Gustav Geist, fresh from mopping up Marlene's Diner, who covered the distance from the bleachers to the baseline in two enormous strides.
Next, Duke chose Mayor Birdiff in his ridiculous overstretched sweater. He might be the only player wearing actual baseball clothes, but he also seemed the one least likely to be able to play the game.
Again, the gentle touch on his shoulder. What is he doing?
“Gratitude.” Ned pointed and twirled his fingers in big, encompassing circles. For all this. The field, the bleachers, the town… And a certain strategy too. They'd talked about it during those long hours working side by side, cutting grass, hauling weeds. He didn't catch every word, of course, but the gist was clear. Duke wanted to win the game with one star, one boy, and a host of old men.
Floyd's next two picks were Ed and Tommy Vick, a pair of brothers from a nearby farm, each of them with arms the size of oak branches. They rolled the sleeves of their starched striped shirts past the elbows and flexed their biceps, much to the clapping delight of two fresh-faced girls in the bleachers.
Meanwhile, Dave scribbled furiously in his little notebook, shaking his head after each of Duke's unlikely choices.
For Duke, those next few choices were Mr. Poplin, whose arms looked like kindling, and Mr. Samms, the butcher whose shirt still bore the bloody smear of his trade.
Floyd chose the young man responsible for keeping the grounds for Picksville High School; Duke called up Mr. Headley who was so intent on cleaning his glasses he stood with the wrong team and had to be directed—none too gently—by Gustav Geist. Floyd summoned the carpenter who oversaw the construction of the new Catholic church; Duke, the middle-aged priest who'd shown up in his religious garb.
The pickings were getting slimmer and slimmer, and by now Ned kept his eyes focused on the dirt road that led up to the station from the south side of Picksville. Floyd was shaking the hand of Pete Shiner —a man who left town for a while to work a cattle ranch in Texas —while Duke took on the elder Mr. Shiner, who had always been faithful in sharing his son's exploits with the crowd gathered at the feed store.
There was only one spot left on each team, and despite his earlier thoughts, when the last plausible player had been chosen, Ned held a faint flutter of hope that Duke might just decide to round out his nine with the town deaf man, when he caught sight of Morris— running like the devil was chasing him. He pointed the boy out to Ellie Jane, who hollered for Duke's attention. She and Ned pointed together, and when Duke saw Morris, he had the look of a man who'd just been acquitted.
Morris slowed his pace as he got closer and was down to a trot by the time he came alongside Ned. I'm not too late?
Ned drew an invisible line across the top of his nose. Just made it.
If the others on the field had any objection to Duke's final choice, they didn't show it. Floyd rounded out his team with a red-headed high school senior. When a coin flip gave Duke's team first at bat, their opponents huddled to decide who would play what position.
Morris headed over to join his team, turning for just a moment to tip his cap to Ellie Jane, and Ned was struck by how different the boy looked this afternoon. It was more than the clean shirt, although that was the most obvious change in Morris's appearance. For the first time, Ned noticed the kid had a thin, fuzzy layer sprouted across his upper lip, and he wore his hair with a definite part combed in one side. Mostly, though, he noticed how tall the young man stood, having left his subservient slouch on the other side of the tracks. Duke had buried Morris sixth in the lineup—probably so he could get to the second inning as quickly as possible—and Morris claimed his place in line with the rest of Picksville's elite.
Dave had settled himself in the front bleacher seat, and even from this distance, it was obvious he'd opened up his little notebook to a brand-new page.
Ned looked over to Ellie Jane. “Ready?”
She held up her chalk. Just tell me what to do.
He made his promises, then moved into position. Batting first for Duke's team, Mayor Birdiff walked to the plate and took a few feeble practice swings that brought the bat up short at the widest part of his girth.
Gustav Geist took the mound, and Pete Shiner settled down at home to catch.
Ned stood to the right of the batter. Once he'd found the perfect haunch to gauge the throw, he stood straight, held up his hand and, in what he hoped was a bold, clear voice, yelled, “Play ball!”
It didn't matter that none of Gustav's throws were anywhere near the strike zone; the mayor swung hard at all of them and was summarily sent back to his team.
Ned signaled to Ellie Jane to put a single checkmark in the box labeled Out before turning back to the second batter, Mr. Coleman, who summarily offered a repeat performance. Third up was Mr. Samms who fared no better, though he did have the sense to let two bad pitches go by without swinging.
As the teams prepared to switch sides, Ned stepped over to the scoreboard and instructed Ellie Jane to draw a large “0” under Duke's name.
She frowned. That seems sad.
“Don't worry. This is baseball. There's always a second chance.”
Duke and Morris were conferring on the mound when Ned called time and Duke came to take his place behind home plate. The expression on Duke's face was every bit that of a proud father.
This is it.
First up for Floyd's team was the smug-faced high school kid, sauntering up to the plate, practically twirling the bat.
Ned steeled himself to remain neutral as Morris wound up for his first pitch. Minutes later, after three blinding fastballs, the smug expression was one of shock. Poor kid never even moved the bat. Next, Gustav swung madly at pitches long after they were snug in Duke's glove. Then the first of the Vick boys managed to hit a couple of foul tips straight up, the second of which dropped nicely into Duke's lofty glove, and it was time for another “0” on the scoreboard.
Dave Voyant's pencil stub hovered, frozen, above his little pad.
Ellie Jane planted her hands on her hips. Not a very exciting match.
Ned took the chalk from her and reached to the top of the scoreboard to write the change in inning. Instead of handing it back directly, he held on to it while she tugged on the chalk playfully.
“Just wait,” he said before relinquishing his grip. “It'll get better.”
She was missing out on the beauty of the game. Sometimes all it took was one spark of life to turn everything around, and that spark was on deck.
Ned imagined Duke probably looked just like this every time he took the plate—confident stride, bat resting on his shoulder. For now, that flash of weakness moments ago was forgotten. All those newspaper articles, baseball cards, nothing compared to this moment, seeing his hero—no more than three feet away—taking his stance, readying himself to do what made him famous. What made him the highest-paid player in the league.
Then Gustav released the ball, and Duke swung. Late.
Before he knew what he was saying, Ned was standing straight up, sending the signal with his right hand. “Strike one!”
So, Duke Dennison was just a man after all.
The pro had the good grace to send Ned a self-conscious smile before choking up and readying himself for the second pitch.
High and outside. Duke didn't budge.
“Ball.”
For the first time, Gustav looked unhappy with the call, but Ned simply bent again, leveling his eyes with the strike zone and prepared for the third pitch.
There were a few sounds Ned carried in his memory, and the sound of a bat hitting a ball was one he felt as a tingle in the palms of his hands. This one he could feel all the way up to his elbows. It was a hard line drive, cutting straight through two startled brothers who scrambled to find it, then proceeded to fight over it while Duke flew by, touching first base, then second, and finally shoring up at third.
The faces on the players and the crowd all registered the same. They were awake. Ned turned to Ellie Jane who was jumping in place and clapping her hands. But she wasn't looking at Duke; she was looking at Ned, and he fought with everything he had not to run back to her, swoop her up, and say, See? I told you things could change.
Mr. Headley was up next with a pop fly straight back to Gustav.
Ned turned back to Ellie Jane to tell her to mark the out but, much to his pride and pleasure, she already had.
Then Morris took the plate, stood stock-still, and took his base after watching four bad pitches roll by.
Now Dave was writing, flipping through his pages like a man possessed, interrupted only by the occasions when he shouldered the camera and took to the edge of the field, poised to snap a photo of the next great play.
Mr. Poplin managed a weak hit good enough to confuse Floyd's team and allow himself to take first while Morris advanced to second. Again, Ned found himself fighting his instincts, as he would have loved to see Duke run home. He'd get his chance soon enough when Mr. Samms, after two strikes, swung and missed a third. He shouldn't have swung; it was a bad pitch that went wild, sending Pete Shiner into a spinning dervish looking for it in the dirt while Duke seized the opportunity and flew across the plate.
Leave it to Duke to steal home.
Ned left Duke's team to their celebration and walked back to the scoreboard where Ellie Jane was using the square of blue felt to erase the “0” and write “1” in its place.
Surged with the adrenaline of the play, Ned leaned over Ellie Jane's shoulder and spoke directly into her ear.
“See? One hit, and it's a whole new game.”
When she turned around she was so close, and he was fighting a whole new instinct. But something in her eyes told him she was fighting too, and for the first time in six years, Ned thought he might have a chance.
Bottom of the second. Morris still pitched like fire, but there was an occasional hit, and even a couple of walks. The old men on Duke's team seemed to step out of their graying skin and recapture some of the vigor they must have had when they were the life force of the town—before desks and shops and farms took their hearts. And Floyd Voyant's assembly of strength took on a grudging respect of both young and old as each took his turn at bat. Often, facing Morris, they muttered something that was lost on Ned but served to harden the glint in the boy's eye.
And Ellie Jane. They worked together, sending each other signals and messages, communicating and verifying. She motioned him to her side and he trotted over, eager to answer whatever question she'd fabricated. When he recorded the change of each inning, she beckoned him to lean close while she repeated to him the latest muttering insult of a disgruntled player. How odd to see such sweet lips, the color of a summer peach, mouthing some of that spite-filled speech. But some of what she conveyed—especially that of the hot-tempered Catholic priest—was genuinely funny, and he loved sharing a secret laugh with her while keeping the others at bay.
So it went on through the late afternoon and into the early evening when the sun descended behind the scoreboard. More than once, when Ned looked over to catch Ellie Jane's eye, she'd stepped away, and the sunset kissed the copper tendrils of her hair, and she was wholly outlined in fiery light. Once, after a close play at first base, he completely forgot how he had called it, remembering only when Ellie Jane moved to the board to mark the out. At that moment he gave himself a stern reminder to keep his mind on the game and sent up a hopeful prayer that there would be other sunsets.
It was the sixth inning, with Duke's team clinging to a 5-4 lead, when Ned noticed a rare break in Morris's concentration. Nothing had been able to shake him—not the taunts from the other team, not the idea of an enormous farm boy poised to steal a base behind him. All of a sudden, though, Morris dropped his head and his glove, looking like a wounded animal on the mound.
Duke was standing now, and he touched Ned's shoulder directing his attention to the new arrival making his way onto the field across second base.
He was a small man, black as night. His clothing hung loosely on his thin frame; his shirt lay open, exposing a gaunt, dark chest. Misshapen hair topped a slack face, and he came onto the field by way of a staggering, unsteady gait—some steps taken sideways. He was yelling something, but the unnatural twist to his lips made it impossible for Ned to understand. He turned to Duke for confirmation, but he'd already taken off for the mound where he put a protective arm around Morris, putting himself between the boy and this angry apparition.
So, as he'd already grown accustomed to doing, he went to Ellie Jane whose eyes were open pools of shock. He leaned close. “What is he saying?”
She shook her head. Such awful things. I can't repeat. Such horrible, horrible names. Who is he?
Darnell. The boy had talked about him often enough—nothing good.
Now the man grabbed Morris, attempting to pull him off the mound, but soon gave up the quest as everybody—young and old men alike—rallied around the pitcher, becoming one huge defensive mass pushing Darnell off the hill.
He stumbled back a few steps, hollered something else, and made a new attempt to push through the dome of fat and tall and muscled men. But when he bounced off without making a dent, he found his fall broken by Sheriff Floyd Voyant, who twisted the man's arm behind him marching the two of them past third and to the bleachers where Dave was pocketing his little notebook and closing the snaps on the camera's leather case. After a brief conversation that seemed to involve much convincing on Dave's part, the three of them—Dave, Floyd, and the inebriated Darnell—headed off the field toward the station house, where an American duplicate of a fine Mercedes would take them into town.
Apparently Picksville's single cell would be occupied tonight.
A new stillness came over the still interlocked players. Morris emerged from the middle of his human armor, handed his glove over to Mr. Poplin and, without so much as glancing back, walked off the field.
Nobody moved until the boy was well out of range, close to disappearing at the top of the dirt road that connected the darker side of Picksville with the rest of the town. There was a shifting restlessness, and every eye turned to Ned.
He held up his hands. “That's the ball game!”
After one last, long look, he wished Ellie Jane a good night, and headed home. Alone.
DUKE
It felt good. All of it. The way it felt the first time he ever stepped up to the plate, the first big hit. Never mind that there weren't any cheering crowds or a fat check hiding behind every play.
Never mind that it wasn't perfect.
This was love.
Maybe tomorrow he'd mix it up a bit. Give himself a chance to hit against the boy.
That is, if the boy came back.
Duke clamped his cigar between his teeth and relived every pitch. The kid was better than he'd thought. Sure he was throwing to a bunch of farmers, but they were young and strong and hadn't been able to get more than a couple lucky rolling grounders late in the game. Just enough to keep it interesting. Enough to cut the lead to one run—5 to 4 in his team's favor.
Then that crazy drunk on the field.
Maybe there were just three innings left. And maybe the sun was getting low. But, boy, he'd wanted a win.
Duke suppressed a bitter laugh. Stupid idea to call the game— but that was Ned. Guy must share a soft spot for the kid. In a way, they all did. Duke could still see the kid's face when his—what was it? Not his father—came crashing onto the field. Screaming at the boy all kinds of curses and threats, telling him the boy's mama was fit to be tied looking for him.
That shame was a feeling he remembered well. More than one time his own old man came to Duke's schoolyard screaming, “Donny! Donny boy! Git your hide home 'fore I skin it!”
And it wasn't until that moment, hours after as he sat on his balcony, that he realized something else. The man was drunk. Here in Picksville. A dry town.
Somewhere, somehow, someone could get a drink.
He heard the click of a doorknob and turned to look over his shoulder. Through his open bedroom door he saw Ellie Jane, fresh from her bath, standing in the threshold.
“Mr. Dennison?” she said, after giving a soft knock on the doorframe.
“Out here.” Though he was sure she could see him.
“Are Dave and Pop home yet?”
“Nope. Guy must have given him some trouble.”
“Oh, well…” Her voice trailed off as she fiddled with the ribbon at the throat of her gown. It was the pink and white one. The one she wore late at night. Or early morning. Whenever she had to run past him in the hall. Any second she would bolt out of his doorway and lock herself away until the morning. These were times he might sit up and talk with Floyd. Or sit alone on his balcony and smoke. But tonight, his head still buzzing from the game, he didn't want to be alone.
