baseball,” says Steve.
“Well, we need a mound,” I remind him. “We need to put down a better surface in the infield, and we need bases.”
“Ah, we can get all that,” he says with a wave of his hand, as if it's nothing. I remember how he said the turf was “a little grass and some dirt.” Steve takes all that stuff for granted.
“Let's get a team together and get one of those traveling teams to come play us,” says Miggy. “It would be beautiful, man.”
“Oh yeah,” says Steve. “Bring it on!”
“We should replay that one game,” says Sturgis.
“You mean against Sinister Bend? They don't really exist anymore,” I remind him.
“There's always a they,” he says. “It's a fact of life.”
“I don't know,” I say. I like the idea in theory, but you can't play baseball against a bunch of ghosts unless you're Kevin Costner.
“Maybe Moundville could finally win that way,” Steve offers. “Sinister Bend will have to forfeit because they don't exist.”
“Yeah!” Miggy and some of the other kids laugh.
“Never mind Sinister Bend. If I could get someone to play us,” asks Sturgis, “would you guys all play? Hypothetically, I mean.”
“Sure,” says Steve.
“Of course,” I agree.
Kazuo looks less sure. “It sounds like fun, but we barely know how to play.”
“These guys will teach you,” says Sturgis, waving his hand at me and Steve. “They know the game inside and out.”
I think aloud, wondering what our chances are against an average team. “Sturgis has a great arm. We won't need to score a lot of runs to win.” Sturgis pretends to be humble, but I catch a look in Steve's eye. “Steve's a great player, too,” I add. “He's got a lot of power for a middle infielder.” That perks him up.
“I've always wanted to play in a real game,” says Kazuo. “Can I play shortstop?”
That's Steve's favorite position, but he doesn't object. “I'll play second,” he says.
Kazuo runs out to a spot between first and second base, pretending to field balls and pivot.
“That's second,” I call out.
“What?”
“You're supposed to be over there.” I point between second and third base.
“Really?” He looks confused.
“Why don't you play there, and I'll play over here,” says Steve, trotting out to his usual shortstop position.
“But I'm still the shortstop, right?” Kazuo asks.
“Sure,” says Steve. “We'll just play it this way.”
“Excellent,” says Kazuo. So we have an ambidextrous switch-hitting shortstop who doesn't know left from right playing second base. He looks happy, though, so who am I to complain?
“What about me?” asks David.
“You'll be our left fielder,” I decide. He's a runty kid, and I don't put much faith in his fielding. He'll do the least dam-age in left field, especially if I shade the center fielder that way. Once I find a center fielder, that is.
Sturgis stands where the mound ought to be, and I trot back behind where the plate ought to be. I scan the field and think about kids I know, mentally filling in the gaps.
“I think we can do it,” I say to Sturgis. “Just get us a them.”
Our first real practice is scheduled for Thursday, giving the grass time to get its roots down deep. I'm so excited I head out about an hour early. As I'm walking to the ballpark, a fat raindrop splashes down in front of me. I stop and look up, hoping it's just my imagination. A second drop plops in my eye, and a third smacks my forehead.
A moment later, I'm in the middle of an all-out down-pour. I run on ahead to the ballpark, seeking refuge in the dugout. My dad has re-covered the overhang with surplus plastic, of which he has plenty, so it's pretty dry in there.
When I duck in, I see that Kazuo is already there, waiting. He nods at me solemnly.
“It's just a regular rain,” he says.
“I hope you're right.” I try to figure out the percentages, but there are too many variables to think about.
“Why are you here so early?” he
“Well, we need a mound,” I remind him. “We need to put down a better surface in the infield, and we need bases.”
“Ah, we can get all that,” he says with a wave of his hand, as if it's nothing. I remember how he said the turf was “a little grass and some dirt.” Steve takes all that stuff for granted.
“Let's get a team together and get one of those traveling teams to come play us,” says Miggy. “It would be beautiful, man.”
“Oh yeah,” says Steve. “Bring it on!”
“We should replay that one game,” says Sturgis.
“You mean against Sinister Bend? They don't really exist anymore,” I remind him.
“There's always a they,” he says. “It's a fact of life.”
“I don't know,” I say. I like the idea in theory, but you can't play baseball against a bunch of ghosts unless you're Kevin Costner.
“Maybe Moundville could finally win that way,” Steve offers. “Sinister Bend will have to forfeit because they don't exist.”
“Yeah!” Miggy and some of the other kids laugh.
“Never mind Sinister Bend. If I could get someone to play us,” asks Sturgis, “would you guys all play? Hypothetically, I mean.”
“Sure,” says Steve.
“Of course,” I agree.
Kazuo looks less sure. “It sounds like fun, but we barely know how to play.”
“These guys will teach you,” says Sturgis, waving his hand at me and Steve. “They know the game inside and out.”
I think aloud, wondering what our chances are against an average team. “Sturgis has a great arm. We won't need to score a lot of runs to win.” Sturgis pretends to be humble, but I catch a look in Steve's eye. “Steve's a great player, too,” I add. “He's got a lot of power for a middle infielder.” That perks him up.
“I've always wanted to play in a real game,” says Kazuo. “Can I play shortstop?”
That's Steve's favorite position, but he doesn't object. “I'll play second,” he says.
Kazuo runs out to a spot between first and second base, pretending to field balls and pivot.
“That's second,” I call out.
“What?”
“You're supposed to be over there.” I point between second and third base.
“Really?” He looks confused.
“Why don't you play there, and I'll play over here,” says Steve, trotting out to his usual shortstop position.
“But I'm still the shortstop, right?” Kazuo asks.
“Sure,” says Steve. “We'll just play it this way.”
“Excellent,” says Kazuo. So we have an ambidextrous switch-hitting shortstop who doesn't know left from right playing second base. He looks happy, though, so who am I to complain?
“What about me?” asks David.
“You'll be our left fielder,” I decide. He's a runty kid, and I don't put much faith in his fielding. He'll do the least dam-age in left field, especially if I shade the center fielder that way. Once I find a center fielder, that is.
Sturgis stands where the mound ought to be, and I trot back behind where the plate ought to be. I scan the field and think about kids I know, mentally filling in the gaps.
“I think we can do it,” I say to Sturgis. “Just get us a them.”
Our first real practice is scheduled for Thursday, giving the grass time to get its roots down deep. I'm so excited I head out about an hour early. As I'm walking to the ballpark, a fat raindrop splashes down in front of me. I stop and look up, hoping it's just my imagination. A second drop plops in my eye, and a third smacks my forehead.
A moment later, I'm in the middle of an all-out down-pour. I run on ahead to the ballpark, seeking refuge in the dugout. My dad has re-covered the overhang with surplus plastic, of which he has plenty, so it's pretty dry in there.
When I duck in, I see that Kazuo is already there, waiting. He nods at me solemnly.
“It's just a regular rain,” he says.
“I hope you're right.” I try to figure out the percentages, but there are too many variables to think about.
“Why are you here so early?” he
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