Practice (pT. 1)

It was only April, but the asphalt had reached egg frying temperature, and that was enough for Sturdy to take the wrench from his work truck, remove the cap from the fire hydrant and announce, “Summers here.” Me and the other kids gaped at the massive water tongue slapping the pavement. Sturdy beamed, the skin on his bare shoulders glinting in the sunlight. “Step right up!” He said. 

No one owned a swimsuit, so we just went in our clothes. I wore baggy jean shorts that weighed about a hundred pounds once they got good and soaked. Screen doors banged open and more children poured out. Some grownups too, either to take a dip themselves or revel in this rare bit of fun. We only had about half an hour before someone from the city would arrive to seal the hydrant and tell us the police would be by if it happened again. 

I darted in and out of the flow, watching the sun make rainbows in the spray. Someone cranked up a car stereo and California Love bumped into the street. I pictured myself encircled by palm trees and crumbling freeways. The scene held me spellbound, so I didn’t notice the baseball kids arrive. Leaning against a gray Oldsmobile, catching my breath, I registered the distant ping of a metal bat, the shouts too, but didn’t snap out of it until my heart leapt into my throat at the sound, like a grenade, of a ball smashing into a car hood. It tumbled off the cratered metal and clunked against my soggy sneaker. 

The owner of the car shouted “Whatthefuck whathefuck whatthefuck….” and I picked up the ball. It was old and slightly graying; the seams were dark red and raised off the surface, like it had been starved thin. I massaged the rough surface against the swirls of my fingerprints, its weight pleasant in my hand. I’d never held one before.

A coach had come over to inspect damage. He wore a maroon cap, khaki shorts and white Reebok sneakers. He peered through a pair of glasses with thick lenses that slightly magnified his eyes. He rummaged through a gargantuan wallet and pulled out a crinkled receipt and began to write on the back of it. 

“Sorry again, had no idea any of our boys could hit it that far. Kids surprise you sometimes. They’re right at that growth spurt stage, you know?” 

The owner was still swearing at him, but it was a sort of nervous tick at this point rather than genuine anger. 

“Where’d the ball end up?” the guy asked, scanning the scene with his bulgy eyes. He spotted me, standing beside the car.

“Hey pal, can I grab that from ya? I’m afraid we don’t have a budget for new ones.” 

A cop car pulled around the corner; the siren yipped out warning shots.

Everyone began to scatter, leaving the hydrant to gush by its lonesome. The coach held out his hand. I raised mine to fork it over, then clenched my hand tight around the ball and bolted. 

“Hey,” the coach called. “Buddy!” But I didn’t look back.

***

Solange, my little sister (she’s five), fell asleep with her head on my lap. I played with the little white beads mom braided into her hair on Sundays. I reached over her head and snagged a cold piece of pizza crust from the plastic plates on the milk crate in front of us. Tips were okay last week, so mama bought DiGiorno pizza. She taught me how to use the oven so I can make it for Solange and me when she’s gone at work, which is most of the time. I feel grown up when I slice it into thick pieces and put it on two white plastic plates.

 The room was dark except for the blue light of the TV. I liked the noise. Our building was ancient and its creaks and groans kept me up at night otherwise. 

I felt myself drifting off to sleep when I heard the knock on the door. I lifted Solange’s head off my lap like an egg I didn’t want to break and padded to the door. I peered through the peephole and saw Mama’s tired eyes and her black braids. The latch clinked as I undid it and the two chains. Mama had a key, but she said she needed to know that we had latched everything up tight from the inside. Burglars had invaded other apartments in the building, and there were disturbed folks wandering the street below that might get it in their head to venture up here. Better safe than sorry, she said. 

“Hi, baby.” She said as I swung the door open and she wrapped me in her arms. They shook a little. 

“Hi mama.” I said.

She set down her backpack and, with a sigh, stepped out of her sneakers. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash, mostly one dollar bills. I heard the clink of change.

 “A little more for the rainy day fund.” She said, reaching for the Folgers can she kept on top of the cabinet, above the kitchen sink. She stuffed it through the slot in the lid. “We’ll have enough for our trip soon.” She smiled. 

I smiled back. “That’s great Mama. I can’t wait.”

Three years ago, while we waited for the school bus and watched the cold clouds of our breath, mama told me it was her dream to take us on vacation, a real vacation out of town. When she was a girl, she said, she had gone to the lake of the Ozarks with her grandparents for five days. They stayed in a cabin near the water and she told me that at night, when the others were asleep, she snuck out and watched the moon flicker across the gentle ripples of the lake and listened to cicada song. “It was magical,” she’d said, her eyes misty. “Totally magical.” 

Shortly after she told me this she declared that the purple Folgers can would now house our ‘rainy day fund’. After every shift she would tuck away as much as we could spare and we weren’t to touch it till we had enough to take our own trip to the lake. When Solange would whimper at the sound of thunderstorms outside, or the neighbors’ shrieks from below, Mama would describe the moonlight, or the pet crawdads she kept in an empty milk jug with the top cut off. This always calmed Solange and, though I tried to stay cool and distant, I liked hearing these stories too. It was funny to imagine us three at a lake for days at a time, without Mama having to leave for work, but it seemed, someday, it would happen. “Just keep plugging away.” Mama would say as she tucked crumpled bills into the coffee can. 

Mama lifted Solange in her arms and I pulled out the futon bed from the cushions and threw down the sheets and blankets. Mama lay Solange down and told me it was time for bed as well. The three of us curled up together. I worked the baseball in my hand, getting to know its rough patches in the dark, digging my nails between the lace on the seams. 

I felt like crying and I couldn’t tell you why.

***

For the next two days, I kept an eye on the field. Those kids might have been a mirage of some kind. We’d lived in this apartment for four years, and I couldn’t remember seeing anyone, other than winos gathered to lay on the dilapidated bleachers and shoot the shit, use those ballfields. No one maintained them and they were riddled with craters like the surface of the moon.

But on the second day, I saw a man in a green Parks uniform raking the dirt, smoothing it beneath the scalding sun. I dared to hope they would return. 

On the third day, I sat on the futon reading a Goosebumps book I’d found in the “Free” box at the library when I heard the familiar ping of cowhide on aluminum. I glanced through the disfigured blinds and saw a couple kids and the guy with the glasses gathered by the backstop. The man held a long rubbery stick with a ball attached to the end of it, and a kid took a hack and let it boomerang back before swinging again. As I watched, a Camry pulled up to the curb and two more kids got out, bats slung over their shoulders.

The coach set them up around the infield in a semicircle and pinged grounders their way. Most had a tough time making the long throw to first. The coach shifted these kids to the first base side of the diamond. Then he moved them all to the outfield and skied pop-ups into the shadow of the thunderheads above. Through the glass I could hear faint cries of, “I got it! I got it!” They did sliding practice too. One by one they took off from first and dropped onto their back leg into second. 

It was beautiful. I took a break only to make a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Solange (spending another moment soothing her because there was only a dribble of Smuckers left in the jar). As she munched, I returned to the window and saw that they had lined up behind the backstop to take hitting practice. The coach stood on the mound beside a big white bucket of balls and lobbed them in one after the other. 

“Stay here and finish your lunch,” I told Solange. Then I grabbed the baseball from its hiding place under the couch and descended the creaky wooden stairs to the street. 

They weren’t neighborhood kids, I could tell. They were all white. Not exactly rich, but the colors of their t-shirts were bright and fresh, and their gloves looked like genuine Rawlings, etched with the black curlicue logo. Several of them had shaggy hair that swooped out fashionably from below their caps. They seemed to know each other well and constantly wrestled or needled each other while waiting their turn. 

I walked right up to the pitching mound and held out the ball for the coach. He studied it and then looked at my face. 

“This is the one that hit the car, huh?” He said. 

I nodded. 

“Well, thought you’d kept it as a souvenir of Preston’s bomb.” He said, smiling at one of the kids leaning against the chain link. They had ceased their chattering and stared at me. 

“I’d never held a baseball before,” I said. “That’s why I kept it.” I held it out. “But you can have it back.”

He studied me again, his eyes spreading across his thick glasses like butter melting atop a stack of pancakes. “Well, I appreciate that.” He took the ball and looked at it for a moment before tossing it into the bucket with a kerthump. 

There was an awkward silence, and then I turned to walk away and he said, “Well, why don’t you stay and take a whack at a few pitches? Might as well. You walked over here.” 

The boys stared, awaiting my answer.

“Alright,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. 

He motioned to the end of the line and I went, saying nothing. I would melt if I made eye contact, it seemed. I glanced across the street at our apartment window, noticing the blinds left askew after my surveillance. A couple kids went before me, spraying line drives, mostly to left field. Preston hit several impressive flies which carried deep to the outfield. The coach observed every bounce and noted the final resting place before turning and delivering again. 

Preston loaned me his bat, a lime green number with ‘Easton’ lettered in black across the barrel. The rubber handle felt soft and yielding beneath my fingers. I stepped to the plate and took a few practice cuts. 

“What’s your name, pal?” the coach asked.

“Sam.” I told him.

“My name’s Mont.” He said. “Ready?”

I planted my back foot on the corner of the white chalk and touched the outside edge with the tip of my bat. Then I stared at Mont. 

He lobbed one and I took, a little out in front, a big hack. I caught a piece and it shot into the backstop’s overhang with a sound like a cymbal and then plopped to the earth. He tossed again and I missed it entirely. Same story on the next pitch. 

“Keep your head in, don’t bail,” Mont said. “Here we go…”

I whiffed on this one too, but then connected on the next three straight, nice frozen ropes into the shallow outfield. Missed the next two, and then sprayed another four into the outfield. Behind me, I heard a few “Hell yeah”s. 

“Last one.” Mont said.

This time I kept my shoulders closed and cheated in quite a bit, took a nice long leg kick. I barely felt the impact on the barrel, just a crisp click, and then I watched it sail to straightaway center, tracing an elegant arc through the humid air. It wasn’t a homer, but it certainly would have fallen beyond the center fielder’s reach for extra bases. 

“Atta’ boy, Sam.” Mont said, beaming.

“Yeah. Hell yeah Sam.” I got a few high fives from the guys. Preston said, “The bat’s lucky, huh?”

Then they all gathered in a circle and I stood by a tree, awkward but feeling that my hard contact entitled me to linger.

“First game Saturday, Macy Grade School. One o’clock. Practice grounders and flies with each other as much as you can before.” Mont said, and everyone nodded with solemn expressions. “Don’t be up late playing X-Box the night before - Stan, I’m looking at you.” The boys chuckled. Then they put their hands in and shouted, “Warriors!” 

As they scattered to their waiting rides, a few waved. I waved back and then shuffled across the grass, which hummed with insect life, to my house. I could hear the cicadas starting up their song in the trees. 

“One o’clock Saturday.” I said to myself, puzzling over the words. “Macy Grade School.”

***

It took some doing to get there. We didn’t own a computer, so I couldn’t consult Google. I rode my bike (or stood on the pedals because the seat was gone and only the bare pole remained, ready to stab your ass) to the library and asked to use a computer terminal, but the skeletal man behind the desk asked how old I was and I said eleven and he told me that was too young to use a computer without a parent. So I asked him where to find a map of the city and he gave me a raised eyebrow look and directed me to, “Second floor - reference section,” and handed me a slip of receipt paper with some numbers on it.

The book was ancient and the binding cracked like mouse bones under foot when I opened it. I scanned the pages for close to an hour, searching for Macy Grade School. When I found it, my heart sank because it was at least two, maybe three, bus transfers away. Mom would be working; I’d have to bring Solange with me. 

I listened to the whir of the air conditioning and the brittle coughs of my invisible companions on the lonely reference floor and thought about that crisp impact of my final hit, how sweet it would be to run the bases after such a drive. Surely there’d be a small crowd on the bleachers, parents and grandparents. The way Mont and the others spoke my name aloud - I only ever heard Mama and Solange say it. I liked hearing it in new voices. Guy voices.

I coughed and tore the page from the map book. I waited but no one came to investigate. 

***

“Remember: this is a secret trip.” I said, gripping the steel pole and holding Solange by the shoulder as she wriggled to see everything at once passing by the bus windows.

“I remember.” She said with a solemn expression. I noticed I’d missed a few syrup spots on her chin from breakfast. 

“So only you and me can talk about it. Not mom, okay?”

“Okay.”

I felt for the hunk of change in my shorts pocket. It was heavy, tugging me down, insistent. I’d never stolen anything before. Lots of kids ripped off LaLa Liquor two blocks up - pocketing ring pops or candy bars, maybe lifting a pack of Pokemon cards or a magazine - but I never did. Mama said stealing sends you down a path, a path you don’t wanna go. I guess I was on that path now, like it or not. The Folgers can was chilly on my fingertips - I’d never touched it before, only Mama had. I dug through the layer of bills on top, groped for the change beneath the froth and snatching a couple handfuls, enough for the bus fare. It was risky; the can would be lighter. To make up the difference I added a handful of gravel from the park and a few marbles I had in my room and tucked it deep down. I never thought about not doing it. It seemed like it was already done as soon as the thought came into my head.

“Ready to pull it?” I asked Solange, gesturing at the blue rope that ran along the bus windows. This was our stop. Solange nodded yes, eyes gleaming. I lifted her up and she gave it a vigorous tug that made the whole thing rattle. The bell dinged and the bus driver pulled over with a whoosh of the air brakes. 

“Thanks,” I said, and he nodded but didn’t look at me. We stood on the corner and watched it rumble out of our lives. Then I turned to the school and spotted fields behind it. Solange gripped my hand and we walked back together.

It took a moment for Mont to register the situation, me mumbling that I’d like to play and Solange staring at him hard. His buggy eyes flickered like dying headlights, and he pursed his lips a little. My stomach twisted in the silence that followed.

“Hey Sam!” yelled the boy Preston, waving from third base. He looked the part in his crisp white uniform with “Warriors” emblazoned across the front in twisty, crimson letters. His socks were old school and high, with twin red stripes running up the sides. He even had pitch black lines - I thought it looked like warpaint - beneath his eyes. With another twist of my guts it occurred to me how foolish I had been not to think of uniforms. I had on my dragon-adorned jean shorts and Vans from Goodwill. I didn’t even have a glove. I half hoped Mont would tell me to get lost so it would be over.

But Mont laughed and said, “Guess you made the team,” and he went and said something to the umpire, a kid with pimples and frizzy blond curls. He returned and said, “They’ll let you play without a uniform this time. I think we have a couple extra gloves. Guess we’ll have to rustle up a uniform for next time.”

The glove was flimsy and the lettering had nearly worn off; I wasn’t sure it would hold up to anything hit with much gusto. But it felt comforting on my hand and I pounded my fist into it a few times.

I walked Solange to the bleachers and used a few of the quarters in my pocket to buy some M&Ms at the snack shack. The moms seated on the hot metal benches smiled at her through their sunglasses. I joined the team for its pre-game huddle. Mont put me in right field to start and penciled my name into the batting order.

I struck out in my first at bat and Mont told me it was okay and not to lunge at the pitches. “Let it come to you,” he said. My next at bat, I waited and stroked one through the middle just under the shortstop’s glove. The bench erupted in hoots and hollers and I saw Solange jumping up and down on the bleachers, her tiny sneakers banging on the flimsy metal. I came around to score on the next hit and got high fives from everyone. 

Neither side’s pitching fared well; the game ended in an 11-11 tie. I was sweaty and elated by the end. As the team packed up, chattering happily over the clink of bats, Mont told me he’d try to rustle up an extra uniform for next time. Solange was sweaty and tired at this point and tugged at my hand, whining that she wanted to go. I asked when the next game was and then shuffled to the bus stop. 

As we walked, Solange cried a little and mewled that she was thirsty. I looked down at my shoes and shorts and felt a pang of embarrassment. I needed more than just a uniform: I needed some real spikes, a glove, my own bat. I’m as good as any of those guys, I thought, I just can’t look like a clown. 

We made it back home and I fixed a Digiorno for Solange, who calmed down and then fell asleep. As she drifted off, I reminded her not to say anything. 

“A secret day…” she muttered with a little smile.

I sat at the kitchen table and listened to the clock tick. My eyes lingered on the Folgers can.