He wiped the sweat from his dusty forehead with an old rag he kept in his back pocket for just such occasions. He looked sideways and narrowed his eyes at the batter. The sun sat low on the horizon somewhere just behind the home plate bleachers that was sprinkled with the local lovers of the game. A warm breeze passed over him and he drew in a refreshing breathe as he sized up the batter. The catcher showed him a single index finger, pointing straight down. Fast ball. He nodded his head once, then reared back, his leg coming up high as his lanky form tensed like a bowstring and then fired the heat right down the pipe. In nearly the same second the ball thumped loudly into the catcher’s old leather mitt knocking a layer of dust off the glove that looked like smoke.
“Steerike three!” the umpire called.
That ended the inning, and the defense trotted in to take their turn at bat. The lanky boy grinned as he watched the batter toss his bat. He threw it a little too hard into the backstop as he walked to the rickety wooden dugout and retrieved his glove to take the field. He gave the pitcher the stink eye the whole time.
“Good pitch.” Jim told him as he came into the chicken wire cage with a bench that passed for a dugout. Jim was even lankier than he was. Both could pass for a couple of coal mine workers, with their dirty white undershirts and torn pants. The wind had kicked up the dirt from the ballfield and he struggled to work up a spit to get it out of his mouth.
“Thanks, Jimmy. Man, it’s hot. I sure could use a coke.” They nodded to each other. Neither of them had a nickel, so that was out of the question. Except it wasn’t. They spotted the Coach lugging a big metal tub over to the dugout just then and watched, awed a bit, as he sat the ice-filled tub down on the bench. It was filled with dozens of eight-ounce bottles of coke!
“You boys look thirsty. Have one!” The Coach smiled at them.
So, they did. He popped the top off on the side of the bench (using a practiced slap of the hand) and spied his brother George headed to the batter’s box.
“Watch ‘im on the inside, George!” he hollered. That fella pitching for the other team had a bad habit of brushing the batter back away from the plate on the first pitch.
Looking to the stands, he waved at his mom. She sat at the bottom of the bleachers, an ice cream in her hand, smiling and waving back. He saw his dad on the top of the bleachers. He was dark against the setting sun, just a silhouette against the reddening sky. He made an awning of his hand to try and make out his features but to no avail. His little brothers, Tony and RE sat in the dirt not far from their momma, shooting marbles and laughing. As he turned his attention back to the game, George’s bat cracked. The pitcher had to duck quick to dodge the line drive that screamed over him.
A good shot, Tom thought. He hit the seam perfectly between second and the shortstop. By the time the outfielder ran it down, George was parked firmly on second base. He gave a rebel yell for his brother. He was joined in the celebration by Bonnie, Joyce and Carol, who were walking back from the concession stand together just as George walloped the ball. They all had different flavors of shaved ice in paper cups. They all climbed up onto the bleachers around their mom and waved at him.
“Hit a homer, Wayne!” they yelled.
“You’re up, son.” Coach said.
He gulped down the rest of his soft drink and picked up his favorite bat, old and dinged up but he had good luck with it. As he handed his brother the empty bottle, he looked over at the Coach.
“Hey Coach” he drawled slowly. “Do you think there’s baseball in Heaven?”
The Old Man’s eyes sparkled as he smiled through his white beard.
“I’m sure of it, son. What else would we do?” It was more of a statement than a question.
Wayne smiled and nodded before trotting out to bat. He put the third pitch over the center fielder’s head and the crowd went crazy. His daddy even waved at him.
Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads out there and God bless Y’all.
Rolling Stones 