Читать книгу The Last Summer - Chan Howell - Страница 11

Ogre

Darren Ogre Winslow was the biggest kid in the league and the best hitter. He led the league in home runs each year. He was a gentle giant, and he rarely spoke. He was already over six feet tall. He nodded at almost every word spoken his way or quietly said, “Yes, sir.”

His dad was the most intimidating man you ever saw. Every season, Jack Winslow drove a new jalopy that was full of baseball equipment. He carried a fungo, and he looked like he was on his way to an epic street fight or he had just left one. All your fears subsided as soon as he spoke. Words whistled out of his mouth through his missing front two teeth. When Ogre was nine, he hit a line drive at his dad, knocking out his father’s teeth. Jack loved when folks would ask what happened to his teeth, and he told the story while smiling toothlessly.

Jack was the local mechanic, and all his team’s baseballs seemed to be covered in grease. Jack was the nephew of Frankie Winslow. Frankie had raised his nephew, and baseball was their passion. Baseball and his son were his life. Jack could take one look at a player and find what he was doing wrong. He would even tell opposing coaches what their players were doing incorrectly. I believe half the league’s players were dropping their hands until he corrected them. Duckworth showed us the correct way to play baseball, and Jack fixed our bad habits.

Ogre was bigger and stronger than everyone, and his size and strength allowed him to be the best. He did not need Duckworth’s cues. Ogre threw hard but did not have a curveball despite using balls covered in car grease. Ogre seemed scared of the big moment, and he usually was outpitched and outplayed by Travis. Ogre always led the league in home runs, but he never boasted about how many he hit each season. Jack dated and kept every home run ball, and the balls were scattered throughout their messy house. Ogre hit his first over-the-fence home run at eight, and I remember Jack running up and grabbing his son as he crossed home plate. Ogre never even mentioned hitting home runs; we usually found out from the opposing team or the rumblings at Winslow’s. He was a menacing figure on the mound, and when he pitched, you lost.

Ogre and Jack cracked the code of beating Alex’s team the previous year. The code was to make Ogre mad. He rarely became angry, but Alex had woken something up in Ogre. He pitched with a rage I only saw during last season’s championship game. Alex Harrison called Ogre’s dad low-rent trash before the championship game due to a dispute. Alex Harrison refused to pay Jack Winslow for his services. Ogre’s pale face turned red, and he was unstoppable. He was able to ignore Travis’s taunts, and he focused on earning the respect Coach Alex owed his father.

Ogre and Jack lived a simple life, but a fun-loving one. Ogre had free rein of the town, and Jack let him go wherever he wanted. Ogre was always wandering through the streets of Swansville, and everyone in town knew the oversize boy. Ogre and his dad lived beside Jack’s shop in the middle of town, and their yard was full of old junk cars. They had an old goat in their backyard named Izzy. Ogre and Jack were generally seen walking to the same two restaurants each night. Jack never cooked, and the boy survived on BBQ from Kermit’s restaurant and whatever the special was at the Dixie Grill. Jack was a minicelebrity at the two restaurants, and when he and Ogre entered, everyone loudly greeted the pair. Ogre’s mom died during childbirth. The town seemed to be Ogre’s adoptive mother. Jack and Ogre were embraced by everyone. Baseball and cars were their lives. Ogre started helping Jack in his shop when he was five years old.

Ogre was usually dirty from head to toe except on game days. He got the nickname Ogre when he was in kindergarten, when our teacher asked the grease-covered boy if he had crawled out from under a bridge. The teacher’s assistant said he looked like a little ogre, to the laughter of the entire class. The following day, Travis Harrison brought the book The Big, Fat, Smelly Ogre for our teacher to read. I remember laughing, but I have regretted it since.

Ogre seemed hungry all the time despite never missing a meal. He would eat twice as much as any other kid in our class. I forgot my lunch for a field trip in the first grade once, and Ogre shyly told me he had some food to spare. I befriended him when he shared one of his three peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches while we were at the North Carolina Zoo. He and I only shared food since he spoke less than I did. Ogre was not just quiet; he was timid, despite everyone being scared of him. We ate in silence while staring at the rhinos.