everybody mind your language. We don’t wanta shock anyone. Fifteen minutes, boys, then we’ll take batting practice. Short, you’ll be in the outfield running down balls and throwing them back in. You need the practice.”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” Running down balls. Jesus. That was all he needed now. “I hope you’ll let me take some, uh”—he had to think hard for a moment to recall the term McWhortle had used—“batting practice too.” He grinned, pretending to give a shit. The truth was that the fellow with the stick got to stand in one place, and that sounded pretty fine to Longarm right then. It would beat hell out of chasing balls and throwing them back anyway. Almost anything would. Longarm grinned and bobbed his head and tried to look just eager as all hell to take that practice at bat.
Chapter 11
“All right, children, that’s enough for today. Let’s get everything picked up and … no, wait a minute. Short. I promised you some batting practice, didn’t I?”
Longarm hadn’t intended to remind the manager of said promise. The idea to begin with was to find a soft job that would let him stand still for a little while. After several hours of loping back and forth across a grassy field in full sunshine and no shade, he was damn well ready to go back to the boardinghouse, soak in a tub of cool water until midnight, and then sleep right on through until time for the next practice session come tomorrow afternoon. That program or something mighty close to it. The idea of stopping for still more of this baseball bullshit was not really what Longarm had in mind at the moment.
McWhortle missed the point entirely, assigning a pitcher—a kid who needed extra work, obviously—and a couple ball chasers both in front of the bat and behind it.
McWhortle came over to Longarm and in a soft voice that the others wouldn’t hear told him, “I’ll have them throw you a few soft ones so you can get the feel of swinging the bat. Look, you, um, do know how to hold the bat and swing and all that stuff, right?”
“I been paying attention this afternoon. It looks easy enough,” Longarm said.
“Don’t count on it,” the manager warned. Then, in a louder voice, said, “All right, everybody. The new man gets a few swings and we go in for supper.”
Longarm picked up the nearest of several bats piled in the equipment cart and looked it over. The wood was pale and fairly nicely turned. Hickory, he guessed, or maybe ash. Not that he gave a damn. He waggled the thing like he’d seen some of the players do earlier in the day, then swished it back and forth through the air a few times for good measure. It felt to him pretty much like any good, stout stick ought to. The sort of thing a body might pick up to mash a rodent in the henhouse with, and surely it would be easier to hit a ball than a varmint. Anyway, Longarm’s primary interest at the moment was to get this misery over with so he could get out of the afternoon sun.
“All right?” the pitcher, a kid named Dennis, called to him.
“Any time, I reckon.” Longarm stood beside the piece of cloth they were using to mark home plate and lifted the bat off his shoulder.
The pitcher gave the ball a gentle toss, and Longarm whacked it as it came across the plate. The ball went over the head of the second baseman, a man named Watt, old enough he should’ve been out of short pants and kids’ games, and somebody tossed the pitcher another ball to throw while Watt was off running down the first one.
Crack! The ball flew high, caught the wind, and curved gently left before coming down well beyond the reach of the center fielder.
“Jesus Christ, Short, you haven’t missed one yet,” a voice blurted.
Longarm didn’t see what was so remarkable about that, actually.
It wasn’t like he was doing anything difficult. Shit, all he had to do was whack the ball with any part of the stick. And there never had been anything slow about his hands or anything wrong with his eyesight. Or his judgment. The simple fact that he was still alive was testament enough to that.
Why, compared with palming a gun and getting off half a dozen quick, loosely aimed shots, this was nothing at all.
And the truth was that he really could have shot the ball in midair.
Hitting it with a stick was nothing compared with that. Mere hand and eye coordination, that was all. Surely anybody could do it just easy as pie.
McWhortle motioned Dennis off the pitching mound, and Longarm relaxed. Good. They could go in now and cool off. Change out of these sweaty flannel uniforms and put on something decent. And dry.
He could practically taste that first beer. And this morning Mrs. Finney said there’d be chicken and dumplings for supper. Longarm couldn’t remember the last time he’d had homemade chicken and dumplings. Now if McWhortle would just let them quit this nonsense and go back to the boardinghouse …
“We’re going to try something, Short. Jason, take Dennis’s place out there. And, Jason …”
“Yeah, Doug?”
“Give Short your best stuff. No fooling around about it. Show him how the big boys play.”
Jason, who was the ace pitcher on the club and who showed it in the cocky, almost contemptuous way he treated every other player on the squad, gave Longarm a wicked grin and swaggered out onto the mound.
The man stretched and grunted and kicked his leg high in the air.
When he heaved the ball it came so fast Longarm could actually hear its passage through the air. The baseball made a soft, sibilant, sighing hiss as it sped through the air and into the catcher’s leather mitt.
Longarm swung at the thing but was too slow. The end of the bat came around after the ball was already by.
“See there, boy? That Is the real thing,” Jason crowed.
Longarm shrugged. It didn’t make any difference to him whether he hit the stupid ball or not. “I think I see now, thanks. Try it again.”
