“Oh, yeah. Now I remember. Why is it we had t’ wait until afternoon to go out and do this practice stuff? I mean, why couldn’t we do it in the morning before it got so stinking hot?”
McWhortle grunted and said, “Get used to it. The home team always uses the field in the mornings, wherever we go. For exactly the reason you bring up. It’s more comfortable. That is, unless the weather pattern is rain in the mornings and sun in the afternoons. Then we’d have the honor of first practice.”
“There’s no room on one field for two clubs?” Longarm asked.
“Not for practices,” McWhortle said, “unless you want fist-fights and broken heads before the games. It’s best to keep the locals and visitors apart. Count on it. Now if you’d excuse me …?”
Longarm increased his stride, leaving McWhortle in deep conversation with Jerry, who was hopping along for all he was worth in the effort to keep up.
Off to the left in the shade of a front porch there was a gaggle of young women sitting in rocking chairs with a pitcher of what looked like lemonade between them.
They stopped rocking and leaned forward, hiding their mouths behind their hands but twittering like so many sparrows while the ball players walked by.
Longarm knew good and well those girls would be commenting about how stupid grown men looked when they were dressed up like idiots. How stupid and how very much out of place. He was sure of it, and he could feel his ears commence to burn as he hurried on down the street among his new “team mates.”
He wished to hell he could get this over with.
Soon!
Chapter 10
“I got it. I got it.” Longarm ran left, back-pedaled two steps, moved left again shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun, inched forward a bit, left again, stuck his padded leather glove out in front of him … and felt the lousy little SOB of a ball tick the tips of his fingers on its way to thump onto the ground at his feet.
“Shit,” he grumbled with a stamp of his boot—which was something he was going to have to take care of first chance he got as he’d not thought to pack shoes to bring along on the trip—and a grimace.
“Jesus, Short, just how stupid are you? Pick the ball up and throw it, the runner’s still running.”
Longarm remembered then. They were only practicing but supposed to be pretending it was like real. He looked around until he found the ball, picked it up and flung it toward the nearest Caps player.
“No, Short, not to the first baseman. The runner’s already rounding second. You’re supposed to throw to the cutoff man.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“The second … never mind what he’s called. That one. That guy standing there.” The center fielder pointed.
“Him. Right. Thanks.”
The center fielder gave him a decidedly ugly look, and Longarm thought most of the others were, too. Fortunately they were too far away to see clearly. Especially if a man didn’t really want to see all that clearly.
“Sorry,” Longarm mumbled but not so loudly that anyone else could hear.
“Man, I hope to hell you’re as good a pitcher as Douglas was told you are.”
“Soon as this shoulder gets t’ feeling better you’ll see for yourself,” Longarm responded, silently adding, which won’t be in your lifetime nor mine, ol’ son.
The man, a third baseman named Esau, took a deep drink of water and wiped his mouth, then tossed the towel to Jerry. Esau shook his head. “I swear, Short, you play like you never saw this game before. You have seen a damn game before today, haven’t you?”
“Three of ‘em,” Longarm said with a deadpan expression and hint of sarcasm in his voice. He was, however, telling the literal truth.
The players quickly drank up, toweled off, and trotted back out into the heat for more punishment.
Longarm dragged along behind them with all the enthusiasm of a man on his way to a dentist’s chair.
No, no, no, no, NO!!!”
Longarm blinked. Looked. Wondered what the hell he’d done wrong. This time.
He didn’t have a clue. Not the first wee inkling.
But he knew he’d screwed up. Again. Oh, he was real sure of that.
He could tell by the way everybody else was glaring at him.
He sighed. And went into a crouch waiting for the guy with the stick to hit the ball again.
“Jeez, Short, catch the ball, will ya? Don’t just stand there!”
“Catch … the ball,” Longarm wheezed. “Yes, sir. First thing. Catch the ball. I will … most definitely … keep that in mind. Sir.”
He considered keeling over sideways just for the relief of being able to lie down. Except he would still be in the stinking sun. God, it was hot. There wasn’t a dry patch on him anyplace, not skin nor cloth nor the roots of his hair. He was drenched from one end to the aching other, and he was beginning to believe that this was a never-ending form of torture. He’d been deluded, that’s what it was. He wasn’t really on assignment in Kansas. The truth was that he’d died and been sentenced to perdition. And this right here was for damn sure it.
“Break time. Break, everybody. There’s lemonade and sweet buns courtesy of the ladies over there, but
