“Go ahead,” McWhortle told him. “Just don’t dip too heavy into the beer if that’s your pleasure.”
“Lend me a dollar?” Longarm asked. “I didn’t pack my wallet in these tight britches.”
McWhortle forked over, and Longarm made for the refreshment tent.
He wasn’t more than into the shade of the canvas canopy when he ran into a friend. Sort of.
“Ma’am,” he said, reaching up to touch the brim of his Stetson only to realize too late that he was instead wearing that ridiculous, floppy baseball cap. Better to tip that than be rude, though. He removed it and smiled at the girl he knew as Fancy—which surely was not her right name—and at the much prettier lass who was with her.
“Geraldine, this is Mr. Short.” Huh. She must’ve been asking after him then. They hadn’t bothered with much in the way of introductions the last he saw Fancy. “Mr. Short, this is Miss Flowers.”
“And pretty as a flower you are too, miss,” Longarm said politely. It was not a lie. Geraldine was blonde and lovely, with a shapely figure and a dimpled smile. He couldn’t help wondering if Geraldine Flowers had the same habits as Fancy did when it came to being, uh, hospitable to visiting baseball players.
Not that he could come right out and ask.
“May I offer you ladies a beverage?” Longarm asked.
“Cider for me, please,” Fancy said. “A lemonade would be lovely,” Geraldine added.
“I’ll be with you in a moment.”
The girls moved out of the crowd to the fringe of shade on the far side of the canopy while Longarm pushed his way through the sweating, smelling press of humanity to fetch the drinks. It was a good thing McWhortle had given him more than the price of a single beer, bless that man’s heart.
Out on the field the game was already in progress. Both young ladies seemed to be actually paying attention to it.
“What position do you play, Mr. Short?” Geraldine asked.
Longarm gave her the standard lie about the sore shoulder that kept him from pitching.
Fancy, meanwhile, was looking over the visiting players like a matron in the butcher shop examining a tray of pork chops prior to making her selections.
“Who’s that on first base?” she asked.
Longarm was paying more attention to Geraldine than to Fancy at the moment and only half heard. He thought she’d said something about that being Hoosier on first.
“That’s right,” he said.
“What?” Fancy asked.
“Levi … that’s Watt’s name … is on second.”
Fancy blinked. Then shrugged. “And what’s the name of that man over there on third base?”
“No, I already told you. Watt is on second.” He glanced briefly toward the field. “The guy on third? I don’t know.”
“Thanks. I suppose.”
Longarm didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with Geraldine. And anyway his mind really wasn’t focused on her. Nor on the ball game, for that matter.
He was really only waiting.
A couple innings later Jerry came running—or as close to it as he could manage—to fetch Longarm.
“The manager wants you to pinch hit now, Chet.”
“Thanks, Jerry. Say, why don’t you take my place answering these ladies’ questions. Girls, this is Jerry. Ask him whatever you want to know. He knows more about this baseball club than anybody.”
Jerry preened under Longarm’s praise. Longarm was pretty sure he could come back any time that afternoon from now on and find Jerry glued to Fancy and Geraldine.
“If you’ll excuse me now, ladies,” he touched the brim of the stupid little cap, “I have some work t’ do.”
Chapter 48
What Longarm still couldn’t figure out no matter how often he worried it over in his mind was: What did these baseball players find to be so difficult about taking a stick and hitting a ball?
It was a simple matter of hand and eye coordination. The eyes saw the ball coming. The hands whacked it with the stick. The ball flew into the air. Simple as that. Yet the ball players, guys who actually got paid real money for playing a kid’s game, these guys made out like hitting the stupid ball was supposed to be difficult.
Even more amazing to them, most of these same fellows really couldn’t hit a ball more than, say, one time in three or four. Hell, they even kept records of such things. Batting averages, they called it, although Longarm hadn’t bothered to learn what was considered good and what was bad or how a batting average was arrived at.
He just wasn’t that interested in keeping track of something so easy.
Now if these guys wanted difficult they should try shooting rabbits with a handgun while riding a running horse over rough ground.
That was difficult.
Hitting a thrown baseball was dead easy. All a fellow had to do was get the rhythm of the thing and let ‘er
