Trial and Error

elbows shoulder high. He took the drop step and rotated his hips, his arm whipping forward.

A bullet, waist high, over the dead center of the plate.

Shactman’s swing was hard, but late, and it threw him off balance. Legs tangled, he collapsed in a heap.

Miguel yelled “Ouch” when the ball pounded into his mitt.

“Strike three!” The umpire punched his fist. “You’re outta here.”

Shactman got to his feet, dusted off his pants, and stalked toward the dugout, never returning Bobby’s stare.

Bobby picked up the resin bag, squeezed it, tossed it back to the ground. He hitched up his pants, pulled at his crotch, spat on the ground. He wished he had some chewing tobacco, or at least a wad of bubble gum.

I’m a pitcher. A real pitcher.

He turned toward Uncle Steve and Victoria and winked at them. Both smiled back without doing anything embarrassing like leaping up and screaming. Bobby’s mind drifted for just a moment, wondering if they’d all go to Whip ’N Dip for mint chocolate chip after the game. Then the second batter nervously approached the plate, and Bobby turned to Miguel to get the sign.

In the bleachers, Steve and Victoria held hands, squeezing tightly.

“Is that a tear in the corner of your eye?” Victoria asked.

“The wind.”

“It’s eighty-two degrees and humid as a wet towel. Not a breath of wind.”

Steve had forced himself to remain calm when Bobby struck out Rich Shactman. He’d told Bobby how to keep his poise, and Steve intended to follow his own advice.

“When you strike somebody out, kiddo, stay cool. Act like you’ve done it before. Like you’ll strike him out every time he comes up.”

Steve struggled to keep his emotions in check. He thought of the long path Bobby had traveled. The terrified, emaciated boy in the dog cage had conquered his fears. He now stood on center stage, confident and determined. Hell, he might become the star of his team. High-fives all around, root beer and pizza for everyone after the game. The feelings welled up inside, and Steve bit down hard on his lower lip, figuring the pain would keep him from blubbering.

“You knew Bobby could do this, didn’t you?” Victoria said

“I knew he had potential. He just needed some guidance.”

Victoria rubbed the back of Steve’s neck. “You’re a wonderful teacher.”

“Bobby’s a quick learner. And so are you.”

“Me?”

“The way you bluffed Kreindler. You’re stealing my game plan.”

“Am I, now?”

“It’s a compliment. You’ve learned to wing it, to shoot from the hip.”

On the pitcher’s mound, Bobby had one ball and two strikes on the second batter.

“I didn’t shoot from the hip,” Victoria corrected Steve.

“What?”

“Kosher food violations are on file in Miami Beach City Hall. Six years ago, Kreindler was cited. Something about not draining all the blood from the meat.”

“You researched him?”

She gave him the faintest hint of a smile.

“Aw, I should have known,” Steve said.

“Are you disappointed? That I’m not as spontaneous as you.”

“No way. It’s better that we’re different. Makes us an unbeatable team.”

Victoria leaned over and kissed him.

They watched as Bobby threw heat, a scorching fastball, for a called strike three. Victoria applauded, as did several others in the bleachers.

“You’re terrific with Bobby,” Steve said.

“I love him. You know that.”

“You’re gonna be a terrific mother.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When will I be a terrific mother?”

“When you’re married.”

“When I’m married?”

“You know what I mean. When we’re…” He stumbled and fumbled. “C’mon, Vic. When it’s time and we’re ready, then obviously, we should, you know…”

“No. Tell me.”

“Aw, jeez.”

“Just say it.”

“Someday we should get…”

He seemed fundamentally unable to say the word that rhymes with “harried.”

“Get married?” she helped out.

“What’s this all about? You pushing me for a formal proposal? Something you can file at city hall with the kosher meat violations?”

“It doesn’t have to be formal. Nothing in writing and you don’t have to ask my mother for permission. A simple, ‘Will you marry me, Vic?’ would do.”

Kreindler was right. Victoria had ample quantities of chutzpah. Or whatever Episcopalians call it. Moxie, maybe. She could demand a jury give her client a million bucks or her boyfriend take their relationship to the next level. All without blinking or blushing.

Steve needed to reply quickly. Any delay would be interpreted as indecisive. At the same time, he wanted to yell at the umpire who had just called a ball on a pitch that had clearly caught the outside corner of the plate, knee high.

At one time, B.V., Before Victoria, Steve had been commitment phobic. But that had changed. Not only did he deeply love Victoria, Steve considered himself the world’s luckiest shyster because she loved him, too. In his mind, he could easily say the words:

“Sure, Vic, I want to spend my life with you, have children with you, knock off big verdicts with you.”

What would be the harm saying it aloud?

No harm.

Didn’t she yearn for the same things he did? And wouldn’t it be great to hear her say so?

“Will you marry me, Vic?”

She gave him a coy little smile. “I’ll think about it.”

SOLOMON’S LAWS

1. Try not to piss off a cop unless you have a damn good reason…or a damn good lawyer.

2. The best way to hustle a case is to pretend you don’t want the work.

3. When arguing with a woman who is strong, intelligent, and forthright, consider using trickery, artifice, and deceit.

4. A prosecutor’s job is to build a brick wall around her case. A defense lawyer’s job is to tear down the wall, or at least to paint graffiti on the damn thing.

5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.

6. When the testimony is too damn good, when there are no contradictions and all the potholes are filled with smooth asphalt, chances are the witness is lying.