“Chill out, Godzilla,” I suggested. It shut him up temporarily.
I swung hard at the next pitch, but the result was a slow bouncer taken easily by the first baseman. I kicked a rock halfway across the diamond. Why couldn’t it have been storybook? Knock the ball halfway out of the galaxy, get carried off the field by my teammates, tumble into bed with that sensational blonde.
At our bench I secured the sponge under my belt, pulled Allison’s glove from my pocket, and started for my position.
Andy grabbed my arm. “Sam, you’re not truly gonna use that!”
“The glove?” I said. “Sure, why not?”
“Oh, lord.”
I understood moments later. The Haymakers pointed and guffawed, a reaction which spread through the crowd. Flynn minced in dainty circles, fitting his hand into an imaginary glove. Craver roared, “First the milksop—what’d he call it?—bunts the ball. Now he’s turned out like some Nancy boy with his little pinkies in a . . . glove! ” It was too much for them; several actually rolled on the ground.
I went out to the box to check signals with Brainard. It didn’t take long. One finger for the “chain lightning,” two for the “snake ball” delivered with surreptitious lateral spin. It was so noisy that we could scarcely hear one another. The jibes were taking a decided tone:
“WHERE’S YOUR BONNET, MARY?”
“AIN’T YOU THE SIZABLE PEACH!”
Brainard shook his head in disgust. “These country reubens’re even lower than I thought.”
“What are they saying, that I’m gay?”
He looked at me incredulously. “I guess not!”
I realized my mistake. “You know, homosexual . . . queer?”
To my surprise his cheeks turned hot pink. A topic clearly beyond discussion.
“CUT THE JAW MUSIC, GIRLS!” Craver’s voice boomed, bringing waves of laughter.
At first I was amused, thinking that in more ways than one I’d come a long way backward from San Francisco of the 1980s. But as it continued for long minutes, my anger began to rise. I resisted an urge to raise my offending glove hand and flip off the entire place. But it would only stir them more. As Harry’d said, why descend to their level?
Tension built sharply in the eighth. Down by three, the Haymakers knew time was running short. When Flynn led off with the predictable walk, every soul in the park knew he would challenge me with his speed: stealing second, he would put himself in scoring position and out of double-play danger. Harry came in for a consultation. We’d try to discourage their running game by showcasing my arm at once. Harry would play shallow in center—a calculated risk with Craver up—to provide a backup in case I overthrew.
The powerful catcher stepped in, waggling his ass and digging his spikes deep. I crouched behind the plate, keeping a wary eye on Flynn on first.
“Don’t get too near, sissy boy,” Craver warned in falsetto. From the side, where the ump stood, came a muffled laugh. I focused on my tasks in the next seconds.
As Harry had instructed, Brainard’s first pitch zoomed well outside. I stepped out for it quickly. We’d guessed right: Flynn was off, sprinting for second. Craver threw his bat to distract me. It missed the ball, which smacked into my hands only an instant before Craver’s shoulder bumped me. I swore and shoved past him, set my feet, and threw to second. Flynn slid headfirst. The ball came low and hard—a hell of a throw, everything considered—and Sweasy plunged it savagely into the small of Flynn’s back.
The ump, dashing out near the pitching box, spread his arms. “Safe!”
Flynn bounced up, face contorted, hair flying, and said something to Sweasy, who sprang at him; they tumbled to the turf, clawing like cats.
My shoulder suddenly felt as if a boulder had fallen on it. Bull Craver spun me around, his livid face inches from mine. “You goddamn sissy bastard,” he sputtered, spit flying into my face. “You push me like that, you’ll—”
I didn’t wait for the rest, but thrust my arms out, jolting the heels of my hands against his chest. He stumbled backward. With a high incredulous howl he communicated the joy he’d have in dismantling me. He gathered himself to leap, only to be enfolded in the burly arms of Mart King.
“Not now, Will!” King yelled. “After the match!”
“I’ll bury ’im!”
“Grand—but after!”
While I waited for Craver to stop foaming I took in the formidable torso, the hamlike fists, the brutal face.
“I’m going to say this once.” I put all the authority I could muster into my voice. “I’ve been in the ring. I know how to fight. If you force me to prove it, you’re going to get hurt.”
They both stared at me. “What ring?” said King.
“In college.”
“College!” Craver snorted. “You milk-sucking whoreson! Soon’s we whip you tit suckers, I’ll cave your goddamn homely face in.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“You’ll wish you’d hid in a shithole.”
“You lay a hand on any of us,” I told him, “I’m gonna knock your fucking head off.”
It felt delicious to say it.
Sweasy and Flynn had been separated and were glowering at each other near second base. Craver picked up his bat and gave me one more homicidal stare. I set up on the inside, hoping Brainard’s fastball would drive him off the plate. But Craver was not to be intimidated; whipping his bat with vicious precision, he powered a drive just inside third that Hurley, in left, played perfectly, holding him to a single. Flynn scored. The Haymakers trailed by only two.
Steve King popped up for the first out. The next hitter grounded to Sweasy, who flipped to George at second. Craver bore down on him. George vaulted over the searching spikes and sidearmed the ball to Gould. Double play! We’d held them off. I jogged from the diamond, thinking I hadn’t done badly. Now maybe we could cushion our slim lead and salt the contest away.
It didn’t happen. Frenzied eruptions from the crowd followed each of our meager
