batting gloves. He had worn them when he played in the minors, because everyone did, and it hadn’t occurred to him not to. But in a twilight softball league they seemed pretentious to him.
Jesse planted his feet in the holes that had already been worn there. But Jesse wasn’t uncomfortable. He had never been uncomfortable playing ball. Playing ball was like being home.
He took a pitch wide for a ball.
When you were going good, he remembered, the ball had come up there slowly, looking the size of a cantaloupe. He smiled to himself. Now it was about the size of a cantaloupe. He took a shoulder-high pitch for a strike. He glanced back once at the umpire. The umpire shrugged. Jesse grinned. He’d get a make good in one of these at bats.
He’s pitching high and low, Jesse thought. Next time he’ll be down.
The wind off the lake swirled a little dust between home and the pitcher’s mound. Jesse stepped out. The infield was well over to the left side. The outfield was around to the left and deep. In this league he was a power hitter. Jesse got back in the box.
The next pitch came in thigh high, where Jesse was looking for it, and when he swung he could feel the exact completeness of the contact up into his chest. He dropped the bat and, without looking, began to trot slowly toward first.
Suitcase Simpson, coaching at first, said to him, “Three trees back toward the restaurant.”
The opposing third baseman said, “Nice home-run trot.”
There were a half dozen people in the stands behind third base. As he came into third, Jesse looked at them. One of them was Joni Shaw. She waved at him. He grinned at her, and ran on home.
Robert B. Parker is the author of nearly forty books, including two other Jesse Stone novels, Night Passage and Trouble in Paradise. He lives in Boston.
