A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [91]
Nora, her coat over her shoulders, looked down at them from the porch. “I’ll watch for a minute,” she said.
“Julie?”
Julie, in furs, leaned against the porch railing. She shook her head.
The brilliant sun caused a glare from the snow that was tough on the eyes. Everyone but the boy had on sunglasses.
Agnes was up first for her team. Jerry, in his sleek black jacket, went into his windup as if he were pitching to Ichiro Suzuki. The green neon ball whipped through the air and left its traces everywhere—on Jerry’s fingers, on the bat, in little trails in the snow, like rabbit tracks. After several misses, Agnes hit a pop-up.
“High fly ball to center,” Rob intoned, commentating as well as umping. “Branch making his way back to the warning track. Looks as if he’s lost it in the sun. No, he’s got it. Nice over-the-shoulder catch for Harrison Branch. One out. Matt Rodgers at the plate. Billy Ricci in the on-deck circle. Here’s Leyden with the windup. Oooh, nice little sinker just cutting the corner. Rodgers whiffs, swinging for the outlets. Strike one.”
Standing in what passed for the outfield and catching the green neon Wiffle ball produced in Harrison a sharp memory of street play as a kid. Players gathering at random, temporarily leaving and entering the game as their mothers called them in for supper and then sent them out again. He could see the vacant lot beside the candy store, the bases scored into the dirt with sticks, the wild swings, the sprints to the bases, the squabbles over close plays. The memory passed through Harrison like a whiff of pure air tinged with the scent of mown grass and rich soil.
“Ricci, who had a nice season last year with the Sox, makes his way to the plate,” Rob said with the clipped patter of a sports announcer. “Jerry Leyden’s looking for the sign. Good stop by Michael in the snow. Ball one.”
Nora appeared and disappeared. Julie simply disappeared. Harrison, feeling absurdly proud of himself, hit a long fly ball none of the fielders could reach, resulting in a home run. The score grew ridiculously high. Bill thought it was 18-11. Harrison argued that it was 17-13. Rob admitted he wasn’t keeping track, and both teams booed the ump. When Harrison turned around, he saw that the boy, Michael, had taken off with first base, using it as a sled to coast down the hill. The kid, legs in the air, got a good ride.
“Not a bad idea,” Harrison said.
Sleds and saucers were produced from a storage shed under the porch, and Harrison thought of Nora’s comment about men who hadn’t been on sleds in years showing off to their wives and kids. He folded his legs into a saucer and took a spin down the hill. The snow was slippery, giving him a slick ride. Why was the pure play of childhood such a highly prized memory? Harrison wondered.
He tumbled from the saucer, narrowly missing a tree. He caught his breath, took hold of the rope, and lifted the lightweight aluminum disk up the hill. He jumped to one side as Bill careened past him, clearly out of control. Agnes, following close behind him, yelled at Harrison to get out of the way.
“You got a good run,” Rob said when Harrison had reached the top of the slope.
“Here, take off your coat, give it a whirl. You can use my jacket.”
“Can’t,” Rob said.
Harrison remembered the fingers. “You mind?”
“Sometimes.”
Harrison glanced down the hill. Matt and Brian had improvised a two-foot jump. Bill, on a saucer, tried it, getting air and coming down hard on the other side.
“We’ll have a groom on crutches,” Rob said and turned toward the inn. “I better go get Josh before he strains his virtual fingers,” he called over his shoulder.
Harrison heard Bill laughing from down below. He watched as Agnes climbed up the hill, short of breath at the top. “And I thought I was in shape,” she said to Harrison.
Harrison contemplated the jump.
“Go for it,” Agnes said.
“You think?”
“You’re only young once.”
“But I need to be middle-aged for quite a while.