Rounding Third (2 page)

Josh Schlagel led off for the A team. The
first pitch sailed by him so low and outside the catcher didn’t even bother
reaching for it and let it rattle against the wire mesh backstop. Josh stepped
into the next pitch and connected to drive it over the leftfield fence above
the fading Harrisonburg Chevrolet banner and into the woods. There was the
small applause of a few guys thumping their hands into their mitts and a few
calls of “Way to go!” or “Nice one!” But it was just a polite acknowledgement,
not the ovation Danny Taylor got, which seemed unfair since this was a game and
not just batting practice. Bobby wanted to applaud or shout encouragement to
the new guy, but he didn’t. He never did for anyone else on the team so it
would seem strange to start now, but he felt bad that the guys were not more
welcoming of Josh.

The next two batters flew out. As Bobby ran
off the field, Josh stopped him. “Hey, Rob, I noticed you’re the only other
lefty on the team. While you’re batting, can I try your glove? Mine’s falling
apart. I want a new one so I’d like to try yours if it’s okay.”

    
“Sure.” He tossed his mitt to Josh. Bobby was flattered that Josh had noticed
him enough to know which hand he used.

    
“Thanks!” Josh grabbed the mitt and trotted to first base.

There was a man on first base when Bobby came
to the plate in the bottom of the first inning. He was so nervous, batting in a
game, and trying too hard to pull the ball down the right field line, that he
missed the ball entirely as it bounced in the dirt and the catcher caught it on
one hop. At shortstop, Danny Taylor made a noise with his mouth like a fart.
Umpiring behind the plate, assistant coach Milnes said, “C’mon, Wardell,”
instead of even calling the strike.

“Let’s go, two!” Josh yelled Bobby’s number
from the infield and Bobby was so amazed that one of his teammates had actually
shouted encouragement that he made it a point to plant his feet and be certain
he connected. He took a full cut at the next ball, and perhaps it was an
accident or subconscious aiming, but he drilled the ball to short. If Taylor
hadn’t gotten his glove up it would have taken his head off. Instead it bounced
off his glove and into short center field.

Bobby made his turn at first and watched the
other runner stop at second. When Bobby came back to the bag Josh said, “Nice
hit, Rob.”

    
“Thanks,” Bobby said, smiling. He suddenly felt that maybe he could do
something to help the team. Or at least help himself feel like part of the team
for a change.

    
As they watched Buff Beechler trot in from leftfield to bat, Josh said, “It’ll
be embarrassing if we lose to the second string.”

    
“I know we’re going to lose, but at least I have to make sure you guys run a
lap or two.” Bobby wasn’t sure where he found the confidence to talk to Josh,
let alone act like the B team might have a chance.

Buff smacked one into deep center where the
centerfielder chased it down at the fence. Both Bobby and the man on second
tagged and went: runners on second and third, one out. Bobby looked over to
first and saw Josh smiling at him. He smiled back.

    
Coach Hudson had told them to feel free to steal if they saw their chance. As
soon as the pitcher went into his windup, Bobby bolted off second--towards
first. The catcher came up gunning the ball to first to try to get Bobby.
Hudson, coaching at third, sent the runner home from third. Bobby was almost to
first when the ball arrived there and Bobby turned back towards second. Josh
fired the ball to the plate, but too late to stop the run from scoring.

The catcher flung the ball to shortstop Danny
Taylor, who was waiting at second. Bobby turned back to first and Taylor threw
the ball to Josh. Bobby turned back toward second. Josh ran at Bobby then
tossed the ball back to Taylor who started chasing him back towards first.
Bobby knew from their sprints in practice that he could outrun Taylor although
he had never wanted to win and risk pissing off Taylor. Taylor threw the ball
to the pitcher who was now covering first. The pitcher ran at Bobby, but gave
up the chase to flick the ball to Corey Brickman, the second baseman, who now
was guarding his own base.

Bobby began to feel like a yo-yo, going one
way then the other. The catcher was backing up first base and the centerfielder
had come in to back up second. As each player charged at Bobby and Bobby outran
him, the fielder would flip the ball over Bobby’s head to whoever had now taken
over the vacated base. If anyone had been keeping a scorebook, it would have
been a ridiculous entry like 2-3-2-6-3-6-1-4-1-5-9-8-3-6-3-5-2-6..., giving pi
a run for its money.

    
Still Bobby wouldn’t give up. Taylor and Brickman were getting angrier. “Just
tag the faggot!” Taylor screamed at Josh.

    
“Get him!” Brickman yelled as he again flipped the ball over Bobby’s head.

    
“He can’t keep doing wind sprints forever!” Taylor yelled.

    
“Wanna bet?” Buff yelled. “Go, Wardell!”

    
Bobby was thinking if he kept forcing throws someone would miss. Brickman
positioned himself halfway between the bases and yelled at the pitcher to do
likewise. The plan was clear. They’d line the base path with men and throw to
whoever was nearest Bobby. It was working. Bobby was now dodging very close
tags. Coach Milnes had come out from behind the plate to make the call.

    
Bobby’s chain was getting shorter and shorter. He lunged at first then spun and
streaked towards second. The ball was there ahead of him, so he slid between
Taylor’s legs as Taylor swiped the glove down hitting Bobby hard in the back.

“Safe!” Milnes yelled. Bobby and the rest of
the team looked to see Milnes pointing to where the ball had popped loose and
was resting at the edge of the outfield grass. 

Taylor looked up and yelled, “You’re going to
pay for that, you son of a bitch.”

“Taylor, you know my rule on swearing,” Coach
Hudson said. Bobby was surprised to see Hudson standing next to second base.
“That’s a lap for the one I heard and an extra one for what I’m sure I didn’t
hear. Wardell, that was good hustle, but don’t you know you can’t steal first?
If you set foot on first again, you’re out.”

    
Bobby said, barely loud enough for Hudson to hear, “I knew that, but they
didn’t.” Hudson’s thick brow creased. Bobby met the coach’s eyes for the first
time and added, “The run scored didn’t it?”

    
A slight smile crossed the coach’s face then vanished as he turned to the rest
of the team. “These practice games are so you can practice, not screw around.
Is that the way we play pickles? Eight guys handle the ball and not one of you
able to make the play? There should never be more than three throws. Tomorrow,
we will be working just on that. Fundamentals win ball games. Did anyone
besides Wardell know there was no point in defending first base?” The downward
glances answered that. Hudson shook his head. “We’ve got lots of work to do
before our first real game next week.” Hudson stalked off the field.

Taylor returned to short, bumping Bobby off the
base on the way. Bobby was stranded at second as the next two batters struck
out.

“Nice glove,” Josh said, pulling it off his
hand and holding it out for Bobby. “New.” The glove still smelled like a new
leather belt and had yet to start giving off the proper aura of a baseball
mitt.

“A Christmas present from my dad,” Bobby
said. “You’re welcome to borrow it anytime. God knows I’m not going to wear it
out. Use it for the rest of the game and see if you like it.”

    
By the next time Bobby batted he knew his team’s loss was certain. His careful
eye earned him a walk but once again he was left on base. The game ended 7-1,
the lone run having come during Bobby’s manic base running.

“Pathetic” was the theme of the post-game
dressing down Hudson gave the A team. 

    
As they lined up for their laps, Taylor grabbed Bobby’s shirt and hissed,
“You’ll pay for this!” Taylor let go just as Coach Hudson arrived and blew his
whistle to start them running. Bobby took off at a good clip.

Josh sprinted to catch up with Bobby then
fell into stride beside him. “Did you set out to make us look like idiots or
did it just turn out that way?” he asked, smiling.

Bobby shook his head, “I was dumb.” Bobby
could feel the anger of his other teammates drilling holes in the back of his
head.

“That was amazing running. You did us all a
favor. Taught us we need to practice a lot harder to win,” Josh said.

“Schlagel!” Danny Taylor yelled and Josh fell
back into step with the other players.

Bobby flew away, making sure to finish his
laps, shower quickly and be out of the locker room before the others finished
running. He had felt like part of the team for one very brief moment and he had
hoped to make a good impression, but he hadn’t considered how the rest of the
team would react. The rage in Danny Taylor’s eyes had answered that all too
clearly.

    
3

Bobby’s parents were willing to pick him up
after games or practice, but he preferred to run the 3.8 miles to his house.
He’d had his mom clock it once.

His run home gave him more time to think
about how stupid his creative base running was. He ran past the sign that
staked the center of Harrisonburg and gave its population as 5781. The sign had
never been changed in Bobby’s lifetime so he questioned its accuracy. Once town
ended, he passed the entrance to the new subdivision, Quail Run, where quail no
longer ran and where the houses looked more temporary than a quail nest. Until
two years ago, those ten acres had been the Bauer farm. Like so many other farms
in the area, it had been swallowed by a Cleveland suburb. Each year, houses ate
more of the surrounding land and if Bobby gave a shit what happened to his town
he might have been offended to see his town overrun by cardboard Tudor houses,
but he didn’t.

Next he came to the old graveyard which was
home to a score of Wardells including Bobby’s grandparents. The cemetery was a
lopsided affair with all of the trees and the older, large marble angels and
obelisks and mausoleums on one side, and the smaller, more modern flat stones
baking in the shadeless sun on the other. The Wardell plot was on the edge of
the old, large side, with above-ground, but not giant, monuments.

The cemetery was all the farther Bobby had
made it before Brickman’s Camaro had caught up with him. Danny Taylor had
jumped out first and Corey Brickman had driven by and then got out so they’d
have Bobby boxed in--one coming at him from each direction and the cemetery
fence cutting off the only path of escape.

    
Over the years, Bobby had grown accustomed to being picked on and he had taken
worse beatings, but he didn’t like telling his parents when he got beaten up
again. He had told his mom once when he was in junior high school. She called
the school, but all that did was get Bobby beaten up worse for being a snitch.
When his dad found out, he tried to teach Bobby to defend himself. During the
disastrous boxing lesson, all Bobby could think of was how useless these
techniques would be against four guys at once, each of whom was twice his size.

Bobby hated even having to be around most of
the guys on the baseball team who had been tormenting him for years. But he was
also so accustomed to their abuse that he refused be frightened away by them.
He’d never hear the end of it in the halls of the school if he let them chase
him off the team. And he couldn’t add “quitter” to the list of disappointments
he felt like he’d been to his father.

But Danny Taylor was right. Bobby was never
going to play. Just being on the baseball team was the path of least resistance
for Bobby. His father had just assumed Bobby would play Little League. For a
shy boy smaller than everyone else his age, the first day of tryouts brought
terror for Bobby, but he found he wasn’t as big a spaz as most of the kids. He
qualified at second, a position that drew way too much action to suit him, but
fear of failure kept him from messing up too bad. Each year he progressed
through Pony and Colt leagues until he found himself going to high school still
carrying a fielder’s glove.

He knew he was competent at best. Each year
he resolved he would end the charade and stop going out for teams he had no
desire to be on, but each year his father put the posters in the front window
of his accounting office and displayed Bobby’s team photos and trophies there
as well. So each year when the day came to tell dad, he couldn’t say the words.

Bobby still remembered the look on his
father’s face when he couldn’t shoot the deer. He had fired, but at the ground.
First he had shifted the rifle slightly to the left, but found he couldn’t even
hurt a tree. By age ten, Bobby had learned to shoot and shoot well; at 60 yards
with a 3x9 scope, there was no way he’d have missed. As soon as he pulled the
Winchester down from his face, he knew his father knew. Bobby was never asked
to go hunting again. His dad had tried to get his sister, who was two years
younger, to go. Megan also took the safety classes, learned how to shoot, but
she had the guts to say there was no way she was going to get up at 4 a.m. and
go freeze her butt off in hopes of slaughtering Bambi’s mother.