Slide - Kyle Beachy [112]
The man said, “Left too many runners on base, though. Again. It's what I been saying all summer. Keep swinging the bats like this, and we're going nowhere.”
“The bats are starting to come around,” I said.
“I got my doubts about the bats. Bullpen's getting tired also.”
“You said it. You nailed it with the bullpen.”
I would advocate the use of military force abroad to protect our national interest and pastime. I would buy a home buried somewhere deep in the county, a place west enough that my commute would be long, an important portion of each day, and I would appreciate my car.
“How many more coins you got in there?”
“Just a few more,” I said.
“You know, back when I played we used to drill a hole straight through a ball, run a piece of string through there, and tie it off, then take our cuts from a tee. Nothing like this place. Didn't even know it was here until yesterday. Came by yesterday, then back today.”
The allure of the cage, a place where arms swung or stayed comfortably crossed.
“Then what happened sometimes was the string would break. You hit it so hard the string would tear apart. Or other times the knot would rip clean off. Always felt like you did something right when it happened. You'd see the ball go fly off into the distance and think maybe you were due some kind of reward. Then you realized the only reward was having to go get the damn ball.”
I laughed through a swing, then let two pitches go while I refo-cused. Once more, the sun released its hold on the day. The etymology of token, the satisfaction of it disappearing into the slot. Aside from two young women in one of the softball cages, everyone else was gone. The pitching machine churned, the red light came on, I swung, the red light went off.
“ ‘Bout time for you to wrap it up.”
I looked at the man outside my cage. His arms were no longer crossed. One of the overhead lights flickered.
“Is it closing time?”
“I'm getting real tired of waiting out here.”
“Oh hey, I'm sorry,” I said. “Got so wrapped up in my swings I didn't realize you were waiting. I don't mind taking turns.”
“Not waiting for the cage,” he said. “Waiting for you to step out.”
A man all shoulders and chest, jaw prominent. He pointed a finger through the fence.
“You got some serious pain and harm coming your way.”
I stood holding the bat in two hands rubbed bloody by athletic tape. My shoulders ached fiercely. I glanced down at my green Pine Ridge polo shirt, drenched with perspiration, then looked back to the man across the fence.
“There's a lesson to be learned in what's coming. Take heart in that. Lesson is stay your ass away from other people's kids unless you're looking to get beat real real bad.”
The girls were gone. Just like that, nighttime had returned. Where had I been all day? Here? The machine waited for a token.
Mr. Worpley crossed his arms and leaned closer to the fence. Colors in the fluorescent light were harsh and cold. Eyes that appeared black. Eyes like shotguns, face of fire. My hands trembled around the cheap bat and I forced them to grip tighter. If he came at me I would have a weapon.
“At least now you know. Tonight's the night you're gonna find a bad corner of life. Soon as you step out of that cage. How's that feel, knowing?”
“Difficult to say.”
“Smart mouth, ain't you? Well, you can count on this. It's gonna hurt, true as the rain and the dark and every other godawful fact of the world. And it won't change either, talk all you want.”
I could, of course. Talk to perpetuity But any words at my disposal had been systematically drained, rendered insufficient. What nouns? What verbs?
“You might not even be a pervert. I sort of doubt you are. I don't know who you are and I don't care either way. Come around my house and this is what has to