Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [69]
The time came, Kitten Floss went into his wind-up. That left hand windmill could panic you if you let it. You had to be patient and wait for the ball. Finally they had to let it go. Then it was yours to destroy and the harder they threw it in the harder you could hit it out of there.
I saw the ball leave his fingers as one of the girls screamed. Floss hadn’t lost his zip. The ball looked like a bee-bee, only it got larger and it was headed right for my skull again. All I knew was that I was trying to find the dirt as fast as I could. I got a mouthful.
“SEERIKE TWO!” I heard the old fart yell. He couldn’t even pronounce the word. Get a man who works for nothing and you get a man who just likes to hang around.
I got up and brushed the dirt off. It was even down in my shorts. My mother was going to ask me, “Henry, how did you ever get your shorts so dirty? Now don’t make that face. Smile, and be happy!”
I walked to the mound. I stood right there. Nobody said anything. I just looked at Kitten. I had the bat in my hand. I took the bat by the end and pressed it against his nose. He slapped it away. I turned and walked back toward the plate. Halfway there I stopped. I turned and stared at him again. Then I walked to the plate.
I dug in and waved my bat. This one was going to be mine. The Kitten peered in for the non-existent sign. He looked a long time, then shook his head, no. He kept staring through that dirty hair with those green eyes.
I waved my bat more powerfully.
“Hit it out, Butch!” screamed one of the girls.
“Butch! Butch! Butch!” screamed another girl.
Then the Kitten turned his back on us and just stared out into center field.
“Time,” I said and stepped out of the box. There was a very cute girl in an orange dress. Her hair was blond and it hung straight down, like a yellow waterfall, beautiful, and I caught her eye for a moment and she said, “Butch, please do it.”
“Shut up,” I said and stepped back into the box.
The pitch came. I saw it all the way. It was my pitch. Unfortunately, I was looking for the duster. I wanted the duster so I could go out to the mound and kill or be killed. The ball sailed right over the center of the plate. By the time I adjusted the best I could do was swing weakly over the top of it as it went by.
The bastard had suckered me all the way.
He got me on three straight strikes next time. I swear he must have been at least 23 years old. Probably a semi-pro.
One of our guys finally did get a single off him.
But I was good in the field. I made some catches. I moved out there. I knew that the more I saw of the Kitten’s fireball the more I was apt to solve it. He wasn’t trying to knock out my brains anymore. He didn’t have to. He was just smoking them down the middle. I hoped it was only a matter of time before I golfed one out of there.
But things got worse and worse. I didn’t like it. The girls didn’t either. Not only was green eyes great on the mound, he was great at the plate. The first two times up he hit a homer and a double. The third time up he swung under a pitch and looped a high blooper between Abe at second base and me in center field. I came charging in, the girls screaming, but Abe kept looking up and back over his shoulder, his mouth drooping down, looking up, looking like a fool really, that wet mouth open. I came charging in screaming, “It’s mine!” It was really his but somehow I couldn’t bear to let him make the catch. The guy was nothing but an idiot book-reader and I didn’t really like him so I came charging in very hard as the ball dropped. We crashed into one another, the ball popped out of his glove and into the air as he fell to the ground, and I caught the ball off his glove.
I stood there over him as he lay on the ground.
“Get up, you dumb bastard,