with increasingly heightened anticipation of increasingly limited action. At least, Little Leaguers play the game more quickly than grown-ups-thank God! We never devoted the attention to spitting, or to tugging at our armpits and crotches, that is the essential expression of nervousness in the adult sport. But you still have to wait between pitches, and wait for the catcher and umpire to examine the ball after the pitch-and wait for the catcher to trot out to the mound to say something to the pitcher about how to throw the ball, and wait for the manager to waddle onto the field and worry (with the pitcher and the catcher) about the possibilities of the next pitch. That day, in the last inning, Owen and I were just waiting for the game to be over. We were so bored, we had no idea that someone's life was about to be over, too. Our side was up. Our team was far behind-we had been substituting second-string players for first-string players so often and so randomly that I could no longer recognize half of our own batters-and I had lost track of my place in the batting order. I wasn't sure when I got to be up to bat next, and I was about to ask our nice, fat manager and coach, Mr. Chickering, when Mr. Chickering turned to Owen Meany and said, 'You bat for Johnny, Owen.'
'But I don't know when I bat,' I said to Mr. Chickering, who didn't hear me; he was looking off the field somewhere. He was bored with the game, too, and he was just waiting for it to be over, like the rest of us.
• KNOW WHEN YOU BAT,' Owen said. That was forever irritating about Owen; he kept track of things like that. He hardly ever got to play the stupid game, but he paid attention to all the boring details, anyway.
'IF HARRY GETS ON, I'M ON DECK,' Owen said. 'IF BUZZY GETS ON, I'M UP.'
'Fat chance,' I said. 'Or is there only one out?'
'TWO OUT,' Owen said. Everyone on the bench was looking off the field, somewhere-even Owen, now-and I turned my attention to the intriguing object of their interest. Then I saw hen my mother. She'd just arrived. She was always late; she found the game boring, too. She had an instinct for arriving just in time to take me and Owen home. She was even a sweater girl in the summer, because she favored those summer-weight jersey
dresses; she had a nice tan, and the dress was a simple, white-cotton one-clinging about the bosom and waist, full skirt below-and she wore a red scarf to hold her hair up, off her bare shoulders. She wasn't watching the game. She was standing well down the left-field foul line, past third base, looking into the sparse stands, the almost-empty bleacher seats-trying to see if there was anyone she knew there, I guess. I realized that everyone was watching her. This was nothing new for me. Everyone was always staring at my mother, but the scrutiny seemed especially intense that day, or else I am remembering it acutely because it was the last time I saw her alive. The pitcher was looking at home plate, the catcher was waiting for the ball; the batter, I suppose, was waiting for the ball, too; but even the fielders had turned their heads to gape at my mother. Everyone on our bench was watching her-Mr. Chickering, the hardest; maybe Owen, the next hardest; maybe me, the least. Everyone in the stands stared back at her as she looked them over. It was ball four. Maybe the pitcher had one eye on my mother, too. Harry Hoyt walked. Buzzy Thurston was up, and Owen was on deck. He got up from the bench and looked for the smallest bat. Buzzy hit an easy grounder, a sure out, and my mother never turned her head to follow the play. She started walking parallel to the third-base line; she passed the third-base coach; she was still gazing into the stands when the shortstop bobbled Buzzy Thurston's easy grounder, and the runners were safe all around. Owen was up. As a testimony to how boring this particular game was-and how very much lost it was, too-Mr. Chickering told Owen to swing away; Mr. Chickering wanted to go home, too. Usually, he said, 'Have a good eye, Owen!' That meant, Walk! That meant, Don't lift the bat off your shoulders. That meant, Don't swing at anything. But this day, Mr. Chickering said, 'Hit away, kid!'
'Knock the cover off the ball, Meany!' someone on the bench said; then he fell off the bench, laughing. Owen, with dignity, stared at the pitcher.
'Give it a ride, Owen!' I called.
'Swing away, Owen!' said Mr. Chickering. 'Swing away!'
The Foui Ball Now the guys on our bench got into it; it was time to go home. Let Owen swing and miss the next three pitches, and then we were free. In addition, we awaited the potential comedy of his wild, weak swings. The first pitch was way outside and Owen let it go.
'Swing!' Mr. Chickering said. 'Swing away!'
'THAT WAS TOO FAR AWAY!' Owen said. He was strictly by the book, Owen Meany; he did everything by the rules. The second pitch almost hit him in the head and he had to dive forward-across the dirt surrounding home plate and into the infield grass. Ball two. Everyone laughed at the explosion of dust created by Owen whacking his uniform; yet Owen made us all wait while he cleaned himself off. My mother had her back to home plate; she had caught someone's eye-someone in the bleacher seats-and she was waving to whoever it was. She was past the third-base bag-on the third-base line, but still nearer third base than home plate-when Owen Meany started his swing. He appeared to start his swing before the ball left the pitcher's hand-it was a fast ball, such as they are in Little League play, but Owen's swing was well ahead of the ball, with which he made astonishing contact (a little in front of home plate, about chest-high). It was the hardest I'd ever seen him hit a ball, and the force of the contact was such a shock to Owen that he actually stayed on his feet-for once, he didn't fall down. The crack of the bat was so unusually sharp
