Mudville (26 page)

“I don't know what the big deal is,” he tells me. “He keeps talking about how Sturgis breathes.”

“No kidding?” I wish I could replay the last inning and see what he's talking about, but it's time to put on the tools of ignorance and squat through one more inning.

We have to juggle the defense a bit, with Rita gone. Kazuo will pitch the last inning, so I move Google to second base and Miggy up to third. I put Anthony in left field. That worries me a bit, since Anthony is a slow runner, but there's not much else I can do.

We're facing the bottom of the order, so I feel okay about Kazuo pitching. He doesn't have any trick pitches, but at least
he can throw left-handed to the left-handed batters and right-handed to the right-handed batters. His switch-pitching starts a long talk among the umpires, but they find no rule against it, so they let him do it.

He does give up a leadoff double, but the next two batters fly out to left. My heart stops beating for a moment when Anthony loses the second one in the sun, but Shannon heroically glides in and snatches the ball just before it bops him in the nose. The runner moves up to third on that one.

Sturgis comes up to the plate, and things get a little weird.

First Kazuo nails Sturgis right in the butt. It's obviously intentional. Sturgis glares, and Kazuo glares back.

“Throw at me,” Sturgis grumbles as he walks to first.

“Throw at us again and see what happens,” shouts Kazuo, kicking the pitching rubber.

The umpires meet again and try to talk while the crowd jabbers and buzzes. Bobby goes out to plead our case to them. Finally, the umps decide to let Kazuo off with a warning.

If that's not weird enough, when Kazuo gets ready to pitch to the next batter, Sturgis walks off the base and heads for the dugout. Kazuo blinks and throws the ball to David. David runs after Sturgis and tags him out in foul territory. (He's out anyway at that point, but David doesn't know it.)

Peter barks at Sturgis while the rest of the team just looks at him in disbelief.

“We have three runs!” Sturgis shouts. “How many do you think we need? Do you think they're going to score four runs
on me in one inning?” He grabs his glove, tosses his helmet, and heads for the mound. Peter just shakes his head in sorrow and returns to the dugout.

Sturgis strikes out Tim to start the bottom of the sixth. He's getting tired but is still effective, throwing fastballs mixed with changeups. He takes a deep breath before each pitch and hurls the ball as if it's a fastball. The hitter is always guessing when to swing.

Something about his breathing, I remember. Google noticed something.

I watch Sturgis pitch to Google. He takes a breath and pitches the ball. It's an off-speed pitch, maybe a seven. It's ruled a strike.

Sturgis gets the ball back, takes a deep breath, and pitches. Another changeup, a mite faster. Maybe an eight. Google fouls it off for strike two.

What am I looking for?

Sturgis breathes in slow and deep, then lets the pitch fly.

“Ten!” I shout.

Google flails at the ball and fouls it off.

“He's counting,” I tell everyone. “He's counting how fast he's going to throw it.”

“Counting?” Anthony asks.

“Yes. He's counting. It's how I taught him to gauge his pitches. He doesn't know he's doing it.”

“What?” Kazuo leans in to get a better look at Sturgis.

I pass David in the hole as Google takes a ball.

“Watch him breathe,” I whisper. “He counts the speed of his pitches while he inhales. Sit on the changeup.”

“Huh?”

“I'll explain in a bit.”

I go on deck and tell Shannon. She gives Sturgis a side-long glance and nods.

Google takes a time-out. He looks at me curiously.

I point at my nose, breathe in, and surreptitiously point at Sturgis. Google smiles and nods, which means he knows all about it. He's just waiting for the pitch he wants.

Sturgis takes a breath—I count to six—and pitches. Google times it right, getting the barrel of the bat out to lay down a bunt. The third baseman is too far back to play it, and Sturgis doesn't even come off the mound. Google speeds to first. The crowd stands up and cheers.

“He counts the speed of his pitch!” says David in sudden comprehension.

“It'll still be hard to hit,” I tell him. “But it's something to go by.”

Shannon goes to the plate, watching Sturgis carefully. He takes a long, deep breath—a ten, at least—and fires. She takes the pitch for a strike.

Sturgis gets the ball back, takes a quicker breath, and lets go.

Shannon swings, connecting solidly, chopping the ball over his head. She makes it safely to first, and Google gets safely to second.

Sturgis wheels around and glares at his shortstop again.

It's not his fault, I think. Don't look at him. Don't be like your old man.

Peter walks out to the mound again. This time there's no friendly pat on the back. He just says a few words, Sturgis snaps something in retort, and Peter stalks back to the dugout.

Sturgis shakes it off, takes a deep breath, and pitches to David.

David sits on the changeup, taking a couple of faster pitches until Sturgis barely takes a short breath and lobs a soft one at him. You can see David's eyes widen as the grape-fruit comes to him, and he knocks the juice right out of it. The ball skips past the shortstop to shallow left field.

Google flies around third and scores. When PJ. throws the ball all the way home from left field, Shannon moves up to third base and David moves on to second. The Moundville fans stomp and roar and whistle. The radio van blares that it's been a long time since we rocked and rolled, which it has. Far too long, the crowd seems to think.

Sturgis is visibly shaken, looking from fielder to fielder, wondering who to blame for this new disaster. I almost feel sorry for him.

Peter takes a few steps out on the field, but Sturgis waves him back to the dugout.

When Kazuo comes to the plate, Sturgis just snorts and throws a fastball at his stomach. Kazuo jumps back, letting the ball graze his shirt. It's just enough to take first base and not enough to hurt.

The umpires convene again. Peter doesn't even bother arguing with them, but they just decide to let Sturgis off with a warning. One more hit batter and he'll be gone.

I've barely had my time on deck, so I dawdle getting into the batter's box, taking practice swings and thinking about the speed of his various pitches. I'm not going to sit on the changeup, though. I'm going to sit on the fastball. I'll end this thing here and now, with one swing of the bat. Any-thing hit hard and fair can clear the bases and win the game.

I go to the plate, all business. Sturgis glares at me, and I stare back coldly, waiting for the pitch. We aren't brothers or cousins or friends, my look tells him. Right now we're enemies, and your back is against the wall.

He takes a deep breath. I count and know it's the pitch I want. He lets go, so I swing for the fences. I connect, hard, and the ball flies off the bat, carrying with it the hopes and dreams of thousands of fans as it soars into the summer sky.

The celebration is held at the pizza parlor across the street. Bobby Fitz and Mr. Robinson treat us to pizza and ice cream, and there's loud, happy music playing, and an indescribable feeling of exuberance fills the air. The place is jammed to the rafters with people wanting to join in the fun. My dad is the only one missing. He had to get the tent and everything back to Sutton.

“You're the toast of Moundville,” Mr. Robinson tells me when the umpteenth family comes by to shake my hand.

So I didn't smash the scoreboard and circle the bases in slow motion in a shower of sparks, but my double cleared the bases and scored the go-ahead run. That was good enough for me.

“Heck, he's the toast
and
the jam,” says Rita.

“I think you're pretty jamming yourself, Foxey Lady,” I tell her. Our relationship has changed all at once into knowing looks and flirty comments and accidental touches. Whatever hesitation Rita had about being my girlfriend seems to have ended at the exact time we stopped being teammates. I'm having fun, but I'm also sort of in knots about it. I drink a gallon of root beer, but my mouth is still dry.

“She definitely digs you,” Anthony whispers to me when Rita takes a little break from the table. That's what scares me, I think. He's got an easier role, admiring Shannon from afar. I'm in a position where I have to actually do something.

I realize Shannon is missing. I wonder if she's gone off to celebrate with her family separately or if maybe she's just anxious about the first day of school tomorrow.

“What happened to Shannon?” I ask Rita when she gets back.

“I don't know,” she says. She shrugs just a little bit too theatrically for me to believe her, but Shannon's secrets don't interest me that much.

When I get up myself, I see my mom wedged into a corner booth full of moping Sinister Bend fans. There's a few empty pitchers of beer on the table.

“That was a great game, kid,” she tells me. She stands up awkwardly to give me a smooch and tousle my hair. I'm glad there's a throng of people between us and the rest of the team.

“Are you going to be around much longer?” I ask her.

“I'm afraid not, kid,” she says. “I'm taking a red-eye to Boston so I can work a flight to Dublin tomorrow.”

“Well…,” I tell her. But whatever people say in these cases doesn't make it out. Have a nice flight? Have a nice life?

“I was on my way to the, uh.” I gesture toward the rest-rooms.

“All right,” she says. “Hey, you guys be good. Both of you, you're extraordinary.”

When I'm washing my hands in the restroom, it occurs to me to wonder, Does she mean me and Sturgis, or me and my dad?

There's no paper towels left, so I shake my hands dry and head back for my table. My mom and her friends are gone.

Nobody's forgotten that school starts the next day, so even though the whole town was packed into the pizza place, by nine o'clock the restaurant starts to empty.

“I'll see you soon,” Rita tells me when her parents come to collect her. She surreptitiously passes me a napkin with her cell phone number.

“See you,” I tell her casually. I fold the napkin and put it neatly into my pocket. “I guess I'll head out, too.”

“You need a ride?” Bobby asks.

“It's a short walk,” I tell him. I figure a few moments of fresh air and solitude will do me good … clear my head and everything.

As soon as I step outside, I notice a brisk wind has picked up. It's like the weather knows that summer is over and school's starting. Someone comes toward me, silhouetted against the lights, and for a very weird second I think it's the ghost of Ptan Teca coming to get me.

“Hey, Roy,” the ghost says. A chill goes through me. I know better than to believe in ghosts, but it's a spooky moment.

Then I realize it's just P.J.

“Hey.” We slap hands like old friends.

I wonder if he's moping around so he won't have to face his dad. A decent left fielder might have caught the ball I hit to left or at least thrown it back into the infield to keep
Kazuo from scoring the go-ahead run. He seems to be taking it well, though.

“It was fun today,” he tells me. “Great game. I love a good rundown. Nice hit at the end, too.”

“Thanks.”

“I know I'm supposed to be miserable, but I'm not. So we lost.” He shrugs. “My dad just takes it so seriously.”

“Yeah, I know. He's a good guy, though. Maybe a little obsessed with baseball, but who isn't?”

“Yeah, well… it's not just baseball to him,” he says. “He thinks he can, like, set things right. Avenge the past. Appease the spirits. He thought if we beat you guys, maybe it would settle something once and for all.”

“So what happens now?”

“Who knows?” He shrugs. “Probably the end of the world.”

“It was the double of doom.” I do my best Darth Vader voice, which isn't very good. We laugh until a particularly icy blast of wind hurls down Main Street and sucks the humor out of both of us.

“Hey, you got a ride home?” Not that I can help him if he does need a ride.

“I usually find a way,” he says, and nods at me before walking on, looking a bit like a ghost again before he disappears into the shadows.

He's a weird duck, I think, but I'd still love to have that kid in my lineup.

I notice a kind of swirling dusty whiteness in the streetlights.

“I think it's snowing,” I announce to no one in particular. It hasn't snowed in Moundville since before I was born. It has only rained, even when it snowed all around us. Now it's snowing on September 4. Whatever angry spirits or meteorological oddities brought on the rain aren't finished yet. Maybe Ptan Teca was just taking a little break and is back for more.

I don't know how long I stand there watching it. I'm hypnotized. It's so beautiful and silent, and I feel as if I'm in a snow globe.

When I get home, my dad is crashed out in an armchair, watching the evening news. They're showing the highlights of the game.

“It's the hero of the hour!” He jumps up and gives me a bear hug.

“Thanks,” I tell him when I can finally breathe again.