“Strike two,” said the ump.
“Game over,” said Crystal’s father, making even less attempt this time to keep his voice down.
On the other side, Ellen had caught Richie’s eye and was waving to him, a big smile on her face. Richie didn’t wave back. Good boy, Gil thought. At that moment she saw Gil. Her eyes widened. She turned quickly to Tim.
The pitcher wound up, lobbed it in. Very slow, a little inside. Again, Brendan didn’t move. The ball glanced off his forearm. He screamed and fell down, writhing. After five or ten seconds, he realized he wasn’t hurt and took his free pass to first.
Two outs, bases loaded, game on the line. Richie stepped in.
Gil was on his feet now, but silent. Behind him Crystal’s father said, “Maybe he’ll get hit too. It’s our only chance.”
Richie took a few practice cuts. Horrible ones. Gil heard Ellen calling, “You can do it, Richie.” Gil shot a glance at the third-base side. Tim had disappeared.
The first pitch: a meatball, right down the middle. For a moment, Gil thought that Richie was going to let it go by; nothing wrong with that, taking the first pitch in a situation like this. But at the last moment, Richie swung, and missed by a foot.
Crystal’s father said, “Christ almighty.”
The second pitch was over Richie’s head. He swung at that too, coming a little closer this time.
“Strike two,” said the ump.
Behind him, Gil heard the two fathers gathering their things. He checked the third-base side. Ellen was watching him. Their eyes met. There was an expression in hers he had never seen before: a negative expression, but not her hostile one, with which he was familiar. This was fear. The sight pleased him. She looked away.
The next pitch bounced two feet in front of the plate. Richie started to swing, then held back. From the other side, a voice called, “He went, ump.”
“Ball one,” said the ump.
The pitcher bounced another one in the same place. Richie didn’t even twitch this time.
“Ball two,” said the ump.
“Time,” called the orange coach, stepping onto the field. The pitcher walked off the mound, met him at the third-baseline. The coach knelt down and said something. The pitcher replied, a long reply, accompanied by finger- pointing at several of his own players. The coach cut him off, raising his voice a little, loud enough for Gil to hear, or think he heard: “Just get the damned thing over. No way he’s going to hit it.”
“Play ball,” said the ump.
The pitcher returned to the mound. Richie took another horrible practice swing. Then the pitch, way inside. Richie went down.
“That hit him, didn’t it?” said Crystal’s father.
“Sure looked like it,” said Brendan’s father.
But Gil knew it hadn’t. If it had, Richie would be crying. The ump raised both fists. Full count.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, ump?” yelled Crystal’s father.
Richie got up, straightened his batting helmet, took his wretched stance. Both teams were on their feet now, screaming this and that. Gil heard Ellen above the din: “You can do it, Richie. You can do it.”
He thought: Be a hero, boy. He saw himself up there, powerful, coiled, murderous: driving one over that fence, over that church, over those trees. Grand slam. Be a hero, boy.
The pitch. Aimed, not thrown: the fattest one yet, somewhat inside. But not as far inside as the one before. Richie went down again. The ump punched the air with his right fist. “Strike three.”
The orange team mobbed their pitcher.
Richie lay in the dirt.
Crystal’s father said, “What did I tell you? What did I fucking tell you?”
Gil wheeled around and smashed him in the face.
He took a swing at Brendan’s father’s face too, but he was farther away, and the blow struck his shoulder.
“What the hell?” said Brendan’s father.
“No one calls my boy a geek,” Gil said.
“But I didn’t call him anything, you-”
Brendan’s father, getting his first good look at Gil, fell silent.
Gil vaulted the fence. How quickly he was moving now, like a giant on a puny planet! In no time, he was at home plate. The ump was bent over Richie, talking quietly. Gil grabbed him from behind, straightened him up, twisted him around, whipped off his mask, and hurled it over the stands.
In a giant’s voice, he said: “That was a ball, you cheating prick.”
“Get the hell away from me,” the ump said, and gave Gil a push.
A mistake. The ump was strong, but not as big as Gil, and much older. With a giant’s roar, Gil charged into him, drove him all the way to the backstop. The ump lost his breath in one barking grunt, and slid down.
Then Gil had Richie in his arms, and was striding down the right-field line, toward his car. He was aware of orange and green, of people shouting, and running around, and staring; aware, but barely.
Richie looked up at him. He had Ellen’s eyes, and Ellen’s new expression in them: fear.
“Please,” he said.
“Please, Dad,” Gil corrected.
Richie bit his lip.
“Please, Dad,” Gil repeated.
Richie started to cry.
“Haven’t you been wimpy enough for one day?” Gil asked. “Say please, Dad. ” Richie cried, but he wouldn’t say it.
Then someone jumped on Gil’s back. Someone light: Ellen, of course. Gil tried to shake her off, but she wouldn’t shake off, clung desperately. He held onto Richie with one hand, grabbed at Ellen with the other. Richie wriggled free, fell to the ground.
“Run, Richie,” Ellen cried.
Richie ran.
Gil turned to go after him. At that moment, he heard a siren in the distance. He let go of Ellen.
“Why did you do it to me, Ellen?”
“Because you’re out of control.”
“I don’t mean the cops. I mean taking Richie away.”
“That’s what I meant too,” Ellen said. “And I didn’t do it. You did it to yourself.”
Gil didn’t hit her. What was the point? He’d known for a long time that she didn’t understand him. “You’re so small, ” he said. “All of you.” Then he hopped the fence, jumped into the 325i, drove away.
After a few blocks, he passed a squad car, siren blaring, blue lights flashing, going the other way. Behind the squad car came Tim in the minivan. He saw Gil and started honking frantically. But the cops must have thought he was merely getting into the spirit of the chase; they kept going. Gil laughed.
Just after dawn the next morning, Gil knocked on door 3A of a suburban condo. He kept knocking for a minute or so; then the door opened and Figgy, wrapped in a towel, sleep in his eyes, peered out.
“Gil?”
“Right, old colleague. May I come in?”
“Gee, it’s pretty early, Gil, and-”
But he was already in.
Gil looked Figgy over. “I didn’t know Bridgid could cook.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Spare tire’s inflating, Figster.”
Figgy pulled the towel higher. “You’ve come for the fifty bucks, is that it, Gil?”
Gil laughed. “What’s fifty bucks between old colleagues? Didn’t I already tell you that? What I’ve got in mind is a proposition of a different kind. One I think you’ll like, Figster, especially if you’re still stoked on the 325i.”
“You want to sell the car?”
“Bingo.”
