Rooms - James L. Rubart [65]
“You gotta knock this one out!” the third-base coach screamed. “There is no choice. Now is the time. Now!”
The pitcher dragged the toe of his cleat across the rubber on the mound, set, wound up, left leg kicking high, and threw a lightning fastball.
The kid lunged toward the ball but didn’t swing.
“Ball!” the umpire shouted, and the pitcher feigned disbelief.
Three and two. The next pitch would tell the story.
Another windup. Another pitch. Fastball again.
Another lunge.
The pitch smacked into the catcher’s glove like a firecracker and sent a tiny dust cloud into the air.
“Sttteeeeeeeerike three!” the umpire yelled. “Yer out! This game is over!”
But not for the kid at the plate. He dropped his bat to the ground and turned to face the third-base coach. The man strode toward him, shouting through his teeth.
Micah gasped. His throat felt like it was in a vise grip, and the blood drained from his face. He should have seen it coming, but it had been buried so long. This was the day it happened. Six weeks after his mom died.
“You idiot! For the love of Babe Ruth, what were you thinking? You didn’t even swing! Do you have any idea what’s inside that skull of yours! Do you? Well, I do! I know exactly what’s in there. So I’m gonna tell you. Absolutely nothing. Zero. Zucchini. Nada! Just like you!”
The coach took off his hat and spiked it to the ground. “Where’s your heart? I’ll tell you—you don’t have one! You could’ve at least stuck your bat out there. What a waste. What a complete waste.”
The coach reached for the kid and grabbed his jersey at the collarbone. It tore as the coach yanked at it, sending the kid to his knees.
“I’m sorry—”
“I can’t believe you’re my son. Unbelievable.”
The kid’s face was ashen. He again tried to say he was sorry, but the coach told him to shut up. A third apology, a second shut up. When the kid started to say he was sorry the fourth time, the coach swung his clipboard and whacked him over the head with it. The clipboard snapped in two with a sickening crunch. The boy crumpled forward onto his knees and elbows and gasped for air.
“You killed this game. You single-handedly killed it.” The boy’s dad spun on his foot, took two steps away, then turned and pointed at the boy. “Just like you killed your mom.”
An instant later it all vanished: the coach, the people in the stands, bats and balls, the popcorn, everything. Even daylight.
A full moon of silver lit up the infield, lit up the grass, lit up the boy sitting in center field fifty feet from where Micah braced himself against the bleachers.
Micah eased off his seat and walked toward the boy. This was just a dream. Not real. Couldn’t be real.
The boy sat just beyond second base, where the grass met the dirt infield, his back to Micah. The torn jersey lay to the boy’s left, his glove resting on top. If he heard Micah approach, he didn’t show it.
Micah slumped to a squatting position next to the kid and took a deep breath. He knew he was about to look into the eyes of someone he knew intimately.
“Hey. My name is Micah. What’s yours?”
The boy turned.
Wake up! He did not want to go through this.
“My nickname is Flash. I guess ’cause I run fast.” The kid stared at the grass as Micah sat next to him.
“It’s a good name.”
They sat together not speaking, just sitting on grass so short and smooth it looked like a fairway.
“I saw the game.”
“Yeah,” Flash said. “I didn’t even swing.”
Micah felt a presence inside him speak. I am here.
“Why did You bring me?” Micah asked.
You know.
“To bring healing?”
Yes. To bind up a broken heart and set a captive free. Do you want to be free?
“Yes.” Micah watched Flash loosen the thin brown laces on his glove, then retighten them. “I’m sorry about what happened today.”
When Flash spoke, Micah strained to hear. “I don’t really want to live anymore.” Flash picked at his shoe.
As the words rang in his ears, the dream faded, as if something was pulling him