Читать книгу Calling Home - Janna McMahan - Страница 13

Will spat into the cleat-scarred dirt and walked off the pitcher’s mound. His knuckles ached from the cold. Every time he caught the ball, his hand stung like a swarm of hornets were inside his glove. The last of winter’s air burned his lungs, and his breath curled out in puffs.

Top of the sixth, two outs, two strikes, one man on base. Green County Dragons down by one and at the bottom of their lineup. Their batter’s easy pickings. Will stepped back on the mound. He held the ball behind his arched back. He eyed the runner on first and then in turn made contact with each of his infielders. A lanky, buck-toothed kid made a few threatening practice swings and stepped back into the box. Will grinned. The kid looked ready to puke. The catcher signaled. Fastball. Will shook it off. Slow ball? Nope. Breaking pitch? Batter’s anxious. That’ll work.

With a fast windup, Will leaned back, cocked his leg, and hurled the ball toward the plate. The batter flinched. The ball slowed. The batter swung desperately, twisting his legs. He crumpled to the dirt. The ball smacked into the catcher’s well-worn glove.

“Strike three! You’re out!”

The batter slammed the bat into home. Will ducked into the dugout. His teammates slapped him on the back. “Way to go! Good job out there, Will!” A couple of benchwarmers pinched tobacco between their lips and gums. “Spit that shit out!” the coach yelled. The smell of popcorn and hotdogs wafted from the concession stand. Liz smiled through the fence and Will squeezed into the dugout corner to talk to her.

“You’re hot tonight,” she said.

“Not bad.”

“No. You’re really hot. You’re sweating so much you’ve got a haze around you in the lights. You look like a glowing angel.”

She stuck her fingers through the fence and Will hooked his fingers in hers. “Your hands are freezing,” she said.

“It’s better than a month from now when I’ll be sweating my ass off with a swarm of bugs flying in my mouth.”

“Your momma’s sitting up there with Jim Pickett in the top row.”

Will searched for his mother in the scattering of people in the stands. She saw him and waved. Will smiled and nodded to her. “He’s always offering to give me a ride to work, and every time he picks me up Mom feeds him like she’s fattening him up for the kill.”

The bat cracked. People cheered. A Cardinal made it on first. “Safe!” the first-base umpire bellowed.

“They’re cute,” Liz said.

“Whatever. It’s weird. Hey, do you have to go home tonight?”

“Nope. Daddy’s gone, so I don’t have to go to church tomorrow. Mom never makes me go.”

“Want to go to the lake?”

“Everybody’s going after the game?”

“We’re going.”

Will scanned the crowd around the fence.

“Seen any more scouts?”

“No.”

A current of whispers had gone out when a Cincinnati scout pulled up in his Jeep. Will knew he was here to see a guy on the Green County team who was batting .425 this year, so he imagined his own great game would go unnoticed. The man left early and didn’t say anything to anybody.

“Damn. Did you see my change-up?”

“I missed it. I must have been at the snack bar.”

“Go get me a Coke.”

“Okay.”

“Lemmons!” the coach yelled. “You’re up!”

“Put some pepper on it, boy,” the coach said. “There’s a scout here from Western. Show him what you got.” The coach popped Will on the ass as he got on deck. Will took a few practice swings with the Louisville Slugger. He was batting .365 this year. His ERA was 1.50. He was only giving up one or two walks per game, and his team’s record was 20 and 4 going into tournament play. Players from the Southern Kentucky Athletic Conference sometimes got scouted by big schools like Western. Will took his stance and stared down the pitcher.

“Hit it, Will!” Liz yelled. The crowd came to life, clapping and shouting. “You can do it!” That was Shannon. Kerry Rucker was plastered to her like he was going to crawl right inside her skin underneath that red-and-gray school blanket. Will glanced down the baseline past first at a group of loud men with their fingers hooked through the chain link fence. There was his dad. Roger nodded solemnly, but the boy turned away.

“Batter up!” the umpire barked.

Will walked inside the chalk lines and squinted at the pitcher, who glared back.

“You suck,” the catcher said. “You pitchers can’t hit for shit.”

His first swing was a strike. Will walked out of the batter’s box, scooped dirt and rubbed it on the bat. He banged the bat against both his shoes. Glaring stadium lights kept up a continuous high-pitched drone. When he repositioned himself back in the box the crowd chatter started again, but all thoughts of his girlfriend, his sister, his mother, his father were vapor. All he knew in the world was the hard, seamed ball coming at him. The bat cracked and vibrations stung his cold fingers. The ball sailed into the outfield. Will bolted. The ball hit the fence and bounced to the ground. A right fielder snatched it and sent it to second. Will stayed on first.

When the next batter hit a hard ground ball that slipped past the shortstop, Will advanced to third. The next batter sacrificed and Will scored. The Cardinals were up by two when the inning ended. With Green County batting two down at the top of the seventh, Will’s team got three easy outs and the game was over.

“Good game, good game.” A blur of smiling faces. Hands slapping backs. Will was in the center of the pack. “Nobody got wood on you tonight, Will.” Liz threw her arms around him. “Now, see there. That’s why he pitched such a game.” Laughter. “Don’t you know girls’ll make your legs weak, boy?” Will laughed and nodded.

“Be back in a minute,” he said to Liz. His cleats popped gravel. He walked past middle school boys tossing a baseball in the parking lot.

“Y’all be careful. Don’t hit anybody’s car.” He pitched them the game ball. “The field’s clear. Go play out there.”

“Thanks, Will!”

He lowered his truck’s tailgate and sat to unlace his cleats. A balding man in a red jacket approached holding a notepad and clinching an unlit cigar between his teeth.

“Hey there, son, I’m Bruce Ford,” the man said. “I’m going around doing some scouting for Western Kentucky.”

“Nice to meet you.” Will wiped his hand on his pants and offered it.

“Good game tonight,” Ford said as they shook. “You got a hell of a fastball.”

“Thank you.”

“Slider ain’t bad neither.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever think about going to Western?”

“Thought about it.”

“We got room for a couple pitchers next year.”

“I’d be proud to pitch for Western.”

“What other positions you play?”

“Everything but catcher.”

“You a good shortstop?”

“Fair. Better on first.”

“You’re quick.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You been talking to any other school?”

“A couple.”

“Western’s a good school and not too far away from home. You could still come back to see that pretty sweetheart of yours.”

Liz was standing with his mother and sister. They tried not to stare. Ford’s melodious voice said Will’s name and the word scholarship in the same sentence. “But you understand we got to look at everything all around. Your grades, your conduct record, your SATs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then. Your parents around?”

“My mom is.”

“Fine boy like you pitching such a game and no daddy to come see him play?”

“He’s around.” Will tossed his cleats into the truck bed where they hit with a hallow thud.

Ford pinched the cigar between his teeth and bit. He spit the stub to the dusty ground. He studied the boy a moment and finally said, “All right, then, let’s go talk to that momma of yours.”