Four Blind Mice - James Patterson [72]
As we jogged off the field to take our turn at bat, Sampson patted my butt. “Definitely not down here to lose,” he said.
Sampson was due up third that inning. I would bat fourth if somebody got on base. A skinny, older Mexican man led off with a bunt single and got razzed by our macho opponents for not having any cojones. The next batter, a big-bellied accountant, blooped a single just over the second baseman’s head. More semi-good-natured razzing came from our opponents.
“Rather be lucky than good,” our guy yelled back from first base as he slapped his big beer belly.
Now Sampson stepped to the plate. He never took a practice swing, just touched the rubber base with the tip of the longest and heaviest bat he could find on the rack.
“Big power hitter. Better move back those fences!” Starkey called from shortstop. He looked like a ballplayer, moved easily and fluidly at bat and in the field, the peak of his cap bent just so.
Sampson just stood there with the bat on his shoulder. Nobody knew what to expect from the big man except me, and even I couldn’t always tell with him. The two of us had played a lot of ball together when we were kids. Sampson had been an all-city receiver as a junior in high school, but he didn’t even go out for the football team his senior year. He was an even better baseball player, but he never played organized ball after Little League.
I stood on deck, trying to figure how he would play it. Actually, there weren’t any fences at the field, so he couldn’t hit one out of the park if he wanted to. So what would he do?
The first pitch floated up to the plate, fat and juicy, but Sampson never took his bat off his shoulder. It was hard to imagine a more tempting pitch would come his way.
Warren Griffin was doing the pitching for their team. He was a decent-enough athlete too, fielded his position well.
“Didn’t like that one?” he called to Sampson. “What’s the matter with it?”
“No challenge.”
Griffin smiled. He signaled for Harris to come out to the mound. Brownley Harris was doing the catching, and he looked like a slightly shorter version of the old Red Sox great Carlton Fisk. Pudge.
On the next pitch, Griffin wound up and delivered a windmill-style fastball toward home plate. He was real quick, what they call sneaky fast.
But so was Sampson.
He dropped his bat and sent a near-perfect bunt down the third-base line. They were so surprised, he could have walked to first base and made it easily. He was on, the bases full.
“Up to you, sugar,” Sampson called from first base. He was grinning at me, winking, pointing an imaginary six-gun my way.
I started to smile as I strolled to the plate. He’d put me on the spot, just as he’d planned it.
“You like a challenge too?” Warren Griffin called from the pitcher’s mound.
“You a bunter or a hitter?” Starkey taunted from his spot at shortstop.
The catcher, Brownley Harris, settled in behind me. “What’s it going to be, hotshot? How you want it?”
I looked back at him. “Surprise me,” I said.
Griffin set up for a windmill-style pitch, so I figured he was coming with heat. What the hell? I thought. Just a friendly little game.
The fast pitch came in a little high, but it was close enough to my wheelhouse that I couldn’t resist taking a whack. The bat cracked and the ball shot straight over the pitcher’s head, still picking up speed and altitude. It flew over the center fielder’s head too. Our team of misfits was going crazy screaming and cheering from the bench. Suddenly, there was some joy in Mudville.
I was on my horse, rounding the bases. Starkey gave me a look as I touched second and raced past him. It was as if he knew something. Did he?
I made it to third and saw Sampson ahead of me; he was waving me home. I didn’t even look toward the outfield — I was coming no matter what happened out there.
I curled around third base, and then I accelerated. I probably hadn’t moved this fast in years.