“New players for the Hawks. They’re just getting their arms in shape.”
“Here?”
“Nothing wrong with that, is there, sir?”
The Blue Shirt thought a moment and couldn’t come up with any infraction over two old panting men dripping sweat, soft-tossing a baseball.
“I thought they used HGs.” The Officer brightened at finally finding something odd.
“They do. But there are still humans who bat.”
“Then why are they throwing?”
“Warming up muscles. So they can bat.”
The Officer frowned. “Is that safe? What if a ball comes out of the playground and hits a pedestrian? Or damages a car?” His mind raced with a lengthy list of disasters.
“We’ll be careful. We’re just throwing and taking some soft BP.”
The Officer frowned again. He didn’t like unfamiliar acronyms. “BP?”
“Batting practice. Underscore practice. Seriously, sir, look at them. Do you think they can drive the ball over the fence?”
The cop watched Ty bend over, gasping. “Are you sure it’s safe for them?”
“I’m supervising, Officer.”
The cop nodded doubtfully. “I’m in the neighborhood if you suddenly need help.”
Ty and Mickey stood with hands holding up hips, grimaces too pronounced to conceal.
“How you guys doing?” Puppy asked.
They grunted, offended at his audacity.
He grinned. “Up for a little hitting?”
Mickey examined the chipped bat, knowing it would fail him. Ty waited thirty feet away. The back end of the playground, nestled against an abandoned building, served as the outfield wall.
Mantle motioned Puppy closer. “You’re the catcher. Then catch.” He tapped the scuffed bat on the invisible catcher’s box.
“He’s afraid,” Ty called out, smiling maliciously.
Puppy did a little grumbling of his own and moved up, anxiously watching Mickey’s practice swing arc near his head.
“Give me a damn target,” Ty yelled.
Puppy sank. Mickey swung and missed. So did Puppy. He corralled the ball at the other end of the playground. Another pitch. Another swing. Another jaunt down to the 163rd Street end.
“I’m going to be three hundred years old by the time you hit one damn ball,” Cobb complained at Mick.
“Because you’re throwing crap.”
“How can I have a rhythm when I’m waiting an hour for the ball to be found?” Cobb walked over and flipped Puppy the ball. “Pitch.”
He swallowed. “I’m good just catching.”
Ty shoved Puppy aside and gingerly squatted. “Come on, fool, before my knees lock. I had arthritis.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Puppy saw the left side of the fence fill up silently, then the right. More were crossing the street.
Puppy stopped about twenty-five feet away. Mickey waved him further back. Puppy put up his hands at forty feet. Or four hundred feet. Four thousand. Didn’t matter.
Eighteen years.
He squirmed, nervously touching his right shoulder to make sure it was there. He went into his tight, economical wind-up. The pitch died half-way, rolling past Mick. Cobb stepped aside. Once the ball stopped, Ty tossed it back with a dainty, underhanded gesture.
“Don’t hurt your hand, Gertrude.”
His next pitch flared on three bounces behind Mick, who didn’t flinch. The ball nestled along the fence.
By now, all three fences were filled by hundreds of silent DV teens in white shirts, the better to show cleanliness, along with crisp blue jeans, black socks and black sneakers. Like a black-and-white shawl, the kids blotted out the surrounding streets. The toes of their sneakers were wedged into the fences, backs straight, eyes expressionless. Straight across. Up and down. A checkerboard of wariness.
“Who’s that?” Ty asked.
Puppy smiled faintly. “The neighborhood.”
The playground was at the vortex of two high schools: HS 22, where trades were taught so skills like masonry and boot making could eventually be built into businesses to thrive outside the DV, and HS 44, where academically inclined kids, from prospective architects to food engineers, studied and prepared for Reg exams; Puppy’s alma mater.
At four-thirty, after school and before part-time jobs, DV kids would patiently roam, searching for curiosities to augment their learning. Look at the bum, imagine how his life could’ve been different. Why would anyone have kitchen curtains that color? Is that shop window really going to get people to eat dumplings?
Ty shook the fence. “This ain’t a public exhibition, punks.”
Their perfect balance kept them erect. A freckled-faced Asian kid looked quizzically at Puppy as if he was responsible for this bad behavior.
Puppy grabbed Ty’s wrist. “That’s considered rude. Not that you care.”
“I don’t want someone watching me practice.”
“People watched you practice your whole career. Let me handle this.” He half-shoved Ty back toward Mick and approached the teens. “Sorry. Old. Grump.”
They ignored the shorthand.
“Baseball.”
Half the fences peeled off; they’d seen enough. Back flipping in The Arc, or landing straight up using The Pole, they steadily wandered away.
Puppy focused on the frecklie kid, who had a look of leading himself. No one led others in Grandma’s House; it was all by informed consensus.
“Baseball?” Frecklie frowned. It’d be rude to comment on Ty and Mick groaning slightly as they played catch. The last thing a DV ever did was show disdain for someone’s efforts, no matter how pathetic.
Puppy used some shorthand for the catching, throwing and hitting gestures, all tightly contained in miniature moves. Frecklie had no idea what he was talking about. More kids left.
Frecklie stuck out his palm questioningly.
Puppy gave him the ball, which Frecklie flipped, losing control. He reddened, muttering. Puppy firmly placed the ball back into the teen’s palm.
“Baseball.”
The kid tugged down his right eyelid. Puppy acknowledged the sadness gesture of baseball’s demise and pointed at the kid’s chest. Frecklie scowled defensively and ran his eyes back and forth like a ‘bot reading. Puppy arched his eyebrow and indicated the playground with a questioning shrug.
Frecklie angrily flashed ten fingers ten times to indicate a recent test score. Puppy jutted up his thumb at the academic prowess, wiggling his forefinger like a crawling snail in the air. And tomorrow?
The boy hopped straight down and walked away to join his friends.
“Fun,” Puppy called after him.
“Fun always costs,” the teen said over his shoulder.
“But a job pays.”
Frecklie narrowed his dark eyes and raised an empty right palm. Some more kids also turned, raising up their palms.
