flashquake Fiction flashquake |
||
|
"Now keep your butt down!" the father demanded. The figure in the infield dirt nodded emphatically, eager to please. "Here comes another, let's get it right!" 
The man tossed up the ball and swung sharply. The ball shot past the mound on a line for center field. The little figure in blue shorts scurried to its left and was in front of it fast, so fast. The man snorted a laugh at this unnatural, unteachable quickness; instinct. How his child came to possess this gift, he did not know. From his wife, perhaps? But though the child was in position, the result was the same as last time. The hard grounder slid beneath the lowered fielder's glove and rolled happily into the outfield grass. The little fielder turned to give chase. "Leave it!" the father roared. "We'll get them all afterward." The fielder stopped at the edge of the infield dirt and eyed the scattering of baseballs in left and centerfields. All misplayed. There was no such thing as a bad hop. No such thing as a ball out of reach. Every single one of them should have been stopped. A tear of frustration rose in one eye. It did not fall. This was how it was. This was how you got better. Babies cry, not ball players. The fielder was tired. Legs, heavy; lungs, thin; throat, dry. Father had a beer resting on home plate. The tired soul thought bitterly, "I can't even get a drink of water, and he's got a frickin' beer!" The frustration over the poor performance was turning to anger. "Let's go!" the fielder shouted, pounding bare fist into open mitt. The next grounder came like a rocket just to the fielder's left. With a swift stride in this direction, butt down, glove open, the ball was sucked up like a coin in a vacuum. With a short hop and a snap throw, the ball was gone again. It soared toward first base, where a broom had been jabbed into the ground handle first. The upturned bundle of bristles stood about four feet above the dirt and represented a first baseman's glove. Hit the glove. Always hit the glove. The ball smacked the center of the bundle of bristles and fell harmlessly to the dirt. "Better," the father said with no particular enthusiasm. "One out." The fielder detected a note of about time in father's tone. "Let's go then," the fielder shouted. This one was hit just to the right. The result was identical. The throw hit the upturned broom inches below the top of the bristles. "Two outs!" the fielder snapped defiantly, glaring at the father as he took a sip from his can of beer. "Let's get the third out and go home! And don't hit it right at me!" The man dipped his shoulder as he swung and pounded the ball far to the fielder's right. "Uh oh," escaped from pierced lips as small feet scampered through the dirt, glove outstretched, ready to stop the ball on the run. You'll never make that throw, an internal voice teased, you'll have to get your body in front of it! And in a flash, the fielder was in front of it, turning, moving toward the ball, toward home plate. The ball was scooped up effortlessly, the throw was made on the run. The ball was picking up speed as it flew. It struck the broom, and its handle snapped halfway down. The fielder turned back, slipping away from home plate toward the outfield. There was no need to expose the uncontrolled grin to father. The fielder began scooping up the loose baseballs. Father's voice, commanding but with an unmistakable note of pride, came booming, "You gather up the balls, and I'll get your mother's broom." As they walked to the car, the father asked, "Do you think I was too hard on you?" "Are you always that hard on Jeff and Brian?" "No," the father grinned, "they'd cry." The fielder's grin was from ear to ear. Her cheeks hurt. "Do you think I can beat out Jamie Simpkins for shortstop?" "If you don't, we'll have you come play on Jeff's team." "I don't want to play on a boy's team!" "Well, how about we come back here on Sunday and start practicing with softballs again?" "Okay, Daddy." Putting his arm around his daughter's shoulder, the father said, "Do you mind if we stop on the way home and get a new broom?" "If we're coming back on Sunday, we should probably play it safe and buy two." |
||
© 2002 by River Road Studios HOME | Archives | Submission Guidelines | Contributors | Links | Contact Us | ||
|
