Boonville (17 page)

John spit in his glove, pounded it twice, and braced himself for another beating. It was a good day for two.

The first batter, smelling weakness, lashed a line drive to right. John charged it but the ball didn't bounce as high as he had expected and sailed beneath his glove, impossible as that seemed, caroming off his shin and rolling to the fence. He tracked it down
with a limp, firing it back to the infield. Without any warm-ups and not having thrown a ball of any kind in a while, he put too much oomph into it and not enough accuracy. The ball flew over the cut-off man's head, past Hap who was backing up the play, and into the opposing team's bat-rack. Stand-up triple. E-9.

“Hell of an arm, Squirrel Boy!” Hap yelled, repositioning himself on the pitcher's mound. “But if you can't aim, don't aim at all!”

The next batter drilled a seed off Kurts' chest at third, which he gathered, looked the runner back to third base, and threw the batter out at first. Kurts was the perfect third baseman, cheating down the line, daring grown men with aluminum bats to hit the ball through him at a distance of less than sixty feet. There would be seam marks embedded into Kurts's skin by the end of the inning. John was glad he was far away in right field.

The other Kurts in left, but probably equally capable of playing third, caught the next out, a lazy fly that carried to the warning track. The runner at third scored after tagging up. The clean-up man made his way to the plate. The only lefty so far in the line-up, and the only one to land that left to John's chin.

“Move back!” the center fielder warned.

Seeing the swollen nose of his teammate in center, John recognized him as the man Daryl had punched in the parking lot of the Lodge before getting to him. He had every right to respect Daryl's power. He knew how hard he hit too.

Daryl swaggered into the batter's box. The women in the crowd cheered as he called for time out, holding up his hand while he made himself comfortable, wiggling his ass, tapping the plate with his bat. The Kurtses chanted, “DAR-ryl, DAR-ryl” in high-pitched voices. Nobody else joined in. Most were taking the opportunity to finish off this inning's beer.

Daryl finally coiled into his batting stance. Hap's first offering tumbled in a spinless drift. As soon as it was struck, John knew it was gone. A child was released from the stands to hunt it down. The ball landed in the weeds fifty feet beyond the right field fence. Hap's head drooped while Daryl circled the bases, meeting his teammates at home plate. John walked to the fence to help the gofer find the ball, not wanting to watch the celebration.

“I think it's more to your right,” John said, trying to steer the boy to the spot.

The boy ignored John's directions, stamping into a thicket of foxtail and vanishing from sight. When he reappeared, he held the oversized pearl, barely able to grip it in one hand. The boy used both hands to heave the ball back over the fence. Confused by the kid's throwing style, John got a bad jump and the ball hit the ground after grazing his outstretched glove.

“Mister,” the boy called out, “you suck!”

John did his best Ted Williams, extending his middle finger.

“Same to you,” the boy said, replicating the gesture. “But more of it!”

John retrieved the ball, noticing there were black pellets stuck to it. He wondered if it had landed in something in the weeds. Then he saw the outfield grass was covered with the same orblets. Removing one from the ball, he squished it between his thumb and index finger and brought it to his nose.

“Any day now, Squirrel Boy!” Big Jack called, from first base. “You can play with the sheep shit later!”

The infield tittered as John tried to flick the turd away, the clump clinging to his fingers. He couldn't wipe it off in the grass either because that would only compound the problem. Not knowing what else to do, John rubbed clean on the ball. He tossed it to the second baseman who whipped it to Hap who threw another knuckler. This one dipped fiercely. The batter grounded out to short.

“Shit beats spit every time,” Hap told John, back on the bench. “Ask Gaylord Perry. The great ones never went to their caps, they go to their grundies.”

Hap also explained that sheep were the groundskeepers, mowing and fertilizing the field for free, and in the off-season making a hell of a stew. John apologized for his miscue in the field. Big Jack, who was braving the substandard section of the dugout for a trip to the cooler, told him the run would have scored anyway. A beer landed in John's lap. The sound of cans opening filled the cave, rounding off the competitive edge.

“It ain't whether you win or lose,” Big Jack informed him, peering out not at the playing field but at the women in the stands. “It's who you fuck after the game.”

“Lord have mercy on that woman's ass,” Bo, the second baseman, said, grimacing as he stood next to Big Jack, taking in the same view.

“I'd fuck her sober,” Big Jack confided.

“Out of what?” the second baseman said. “You'd need a bakery truck to haul those buns.”

“Speaking of which, Squirrel Boy,” someone called from down the bench, not loud enough for the other team to hear. “You get any from Sarah?”

Everyone, including the on-deck batter, waited for John's answer. But John didn't kiss and tell. He also knew whatever he said would get back to Daryl.

“We're just friends,” John said, but might as well have told them he screwed Sarah twelve ways 'til midnight.

“I'd be her friend, too,” the center fielder said, amid his teammates' snickering. “I'd be her butt buddy.”

“I thought you was Bobby Dee's butt buddy, Hank,” said Bo.

“Fuck you, Bo,” Hank replied.

“You making offers or insults?” Bo asked. “Seems these days you want to be everyone's butt buddy.”

“At least I stick it somewhere,” Hank said. “You ain't had pussy since pussy had you.”

The bench encouraged their insults, asking, “You gonna let him get away with that?” or “Did you hear what he said?” Meanwhile, the game proceeded; someone hit a single, someone flied out to left. The slow approach of ball to batsman inspired little attention. The jousting on the bench was more entertaining and good-natured, until the topic of mothers was introduced.

John understood by Hank's jokes that Bo's mother, Night Train Elaine, was a drunk who dated men for the price of a bottle. She also had the misfortune of accidentally shifting gears in a truck while engaging in oral sex in the parking lot of Cal's Palace. She and her partner had been too loaded to realize the truck's motor was running, too into the moment to notice the truck was moving, and then amazed to find themselves climaxing in the visitor's dugout. The incident had occurred between games so nobody had been hurt, but that was why the roof of the dugout was caved in. Hank retold the story, making puns out of “stick-shift,” “softballs,” and “double headers.”

“Let's get off mamas, because I've been on yours all night,” Hank finished. “I had a cold and I guess she smelled the Ny-Quil.”

Bo took a swing at the center fielder. John slid down the bench, certain Bo was going to rebreak Hank's nose. But Big Jack
was between them before the punch could land. Big Jack was about six-four, two-forty, with a burly chest and biceps that rippled from his jersey. In another era, he would have worked for the circus bending bars of steel. In this age, he was probably a local legend performing feats of strength like kicking two morons' asses without putting down his can of beer.

“Both you tinsel dicks shut up,” Big Jack said, holding the two men at bay by expanding his chest. “I can't concentrate with all this yappin'. You're on deck, Bo. Grab a stick before I do.”

“When you least expect it, expect it!” Bo warned Hank, before leaving the dugout to take his licks.

Big Jack returned to his concentrating, staring intently at the crotch of a woman in the stands whose dress had climbed up past her thighs. He sipped his beer, squinting at the hint of pink beneath the tunnel of fabric. But Hank wouldn't let the argument rest. He made a show of not being afraid of Bo, declaring loudly that he would fight anybody, anytime, anywhere, and his history proved it.

“Sit down, Suzy,” Big Jack said. “Before I make you prove it for the last time.”

Hank mumbled something about being a team player. He took a seat next to John as one of the Kurtses, returned to the dugout after sliding hard to break up a double play and taking a chunk out of his leg. Blood seeped through his pin-stripes. Not wanting to drink, John handed Kurts his beer, reminding himself that he had business to take care of later. Kurts splashed some on his leg and sat down to enjoy the rest.

“What'd I miss?” Kurts asked. “Sounded like Hank was gonna get his ass kicked.”

Big Jack walked in front of them, choosing a bat by proximity, swinging it with one hand while he finished his can of suds with the other. John noticed a ring of stitches around Big Jack's thumb, the skin above the scar a shade paler than the flesh below it. Big Jack swatted his empty into the screen, dousing the bench with a spray of foam.

“Hey!” Hank whined, cringing from the beer.

“It's embarrassing,” Big Jack said. “You look like Murdered Row.”

John self-consciously raised a hand to his eye, Hank to his nose, while Kurts continued poking at his festering leg. Hank
pretended as if he didn't hear Big Jack's slight. Kurts looked up from his wound when he realized he had been included in the indignity.

“You look like a two-hundred-pound bag of shit,” Kurts called after Big Jack.

Big Jack turned to see who had insulted him.

“Don't worry,” Kurts added. “We won't tell Tammy Lee you was lookin' up her pussy.”

Big Jack flushed, continuing toward the plate without comment, not checking to see if Tammy Lee had fixed her dress.

It reminded John of why he didn't play sports anymore, he'd had enough of dugouts and locker rooms, the nonstop flow of sexist and racist talk. “The hours involved in athletics are the same ones that obliterate common sense,” Grandma had told him. “There is no such thing as a thinking man's game.” She was right, athletes were better off obedient, answering to the memory of repetition: ten thousand ground balls to the left, ten thousand ground balls to the right. Batting practice, base running, shagging flies. What's the meaning of life? Reaching your physical peak before the age of thirty, and then being disposed of. No wonder sports heroes were drug addicts and wife beaters.

John had bowed out of sports in high school after his best friend, who was black, was repeatedly called “nigger” by his own teammates. Not to his face, but when he was out on the field. “That nigger sure can play! Look at that nigger go!” John complained and was told by his coach he was disrupting team morale. His father felt the same way, not approving of John's choice of pals, making it clear he would face the music alone if he created any problems by “popping off.” John wanted to make a stand, but his friend told him not to worry, it was part of the game. If that was true, the green fields and thrill of victory weren't enough. John didn't want to play.

“You ruined it for everybody, Kurts!” Hank moaned. “Don't you know some girls sit like this.” He held out two fingers like a pair of closed legs. “And some girls sit like this,” he crossed his fingers. “But girls who sit like this,” he spread them. “Get this,” he extended his middle finger. “Like that.” He snapped.

Kurts stared at Hank. The inning was over; Big Jack had lined out and the Spotted Owl Eaters were gathering their gloves and heading for the field. But as long as Kurts kept his eye on Hank,
the center fielder wasn't going to move. Instead, Hank bent over to retie his cleats. Hank was one of the players who took pride in his apparel. His uniform and cleats were spotless, until Bo kicked dirt on them in passing. But Hank did nothing in response, not wanting to give anybody a reason to start a pecking party.

“Who asked you to play on this team, anyway?” Kurts finally asked.

Hank didn't answer.

“If you don't get a hit today,” Kurts told him, rising from the bench. “I'm kicking your ass. And taking your cleats.”

Kurts followed the rest of the team to the field. John took his place in right, feeling the gaze of his own fans; Billy Chuck was watching him from the on-deck circle, Cal was talking to Daryl and a couple others who nodded when Daryl pointed in John's direction. John felt like a spy with a blown cover. Although Hap, the Kurtses, and Sarah seemed to accept him, he was a stranger in a strange land. And he had seen how they dealt with one of their own; Hank would be beaten and left cleatless in the streets of Boonville by the end of the game. Maybe John should take a hint and hightail it over the fence, back to Miami. But it occurred to him that he had already defected. These were his countrymen.

“I was on this team before Kurts,” Hank complained from center field. “He touches my cleats and I'm pressing charges.”

Night began to spread. The lights shined brighter on the men playing a boy's game on a boy's field. Crickets chirped. Insects shrieked at a frequency above the hum of the lights, only audible if you could separate the two sounds. The smell of burning wood drifted on cold air. The women in the stands made trips to their cars, returning with jackets for their children, thermoses of steaming liquid, flasks to be passed beneath their afghans and blankets. They watched, they waited, they endured.

John wanted the game to be over so he could blockade himself in his cabin and wait for Sarah. The thought of her blue eyes and manic enthusiasm excited him. He didn't know what the women in the bleachers had to look forward to, doing dishes, clipping coupons, being mounted? Tuna Helper? It seemed to John if they weathered the softball game, they shouldn't have to see their husbands for another week.