Mudville by Kurtis Scaletta Page A

asks. “Practice isn't for another hour.”
    “I just like the empty ballpark.”
    “Me too.”
    We sit in silence for a while and watch the rain.
    “You can sort of make pictures out of the raindrops,” Kazuo says at last.
    “Yeah, like I never played that game before,” I tell him. We both laugh. Kids in Moundville have all done their share of rain watching.

    The rain lightens up after about a half hour. We step out of the dugout, onto the silvery grass, and look at the sky as the clouds hurry away to ruin someone else's day.
    “I told you,” he says. “It was just a regular rain.”
    “I believed you.”
    “I believed me, too, but I'm still relieved.”
    The next one to arrive is Peter Junior. He just drifts in, like he didn't really mean to wind up here, in particular, but just sort of found himself here. He's been caught in the rain but doesn't seem to care that he's soaked.
    “Hey, Peter.”
    “You can call me P.J.,” he says. “My dad is doing an odd job in town. Garage door. I thought I'd come see how the field was doing.”
    “You want to play?” I toss him the ball. He catches it easily but doesn't toss it back right away.
    “I'm already on a baseball team,” he says apologetically. “The Pirates, remember?”
    “I'm just talking about practice.”
    “I guess I can hang around for a while.”
    Steve brings a couple of new players with him: Anthony and Miggy's kid brother Carlos. They even bring gloves, so we're able to fill in the infield and run some drills. We just take turns at the plate, the rest of us trying different spots in the field.
    We hardly even need anyone in the outfield with Sturgis pitching. He smokes those balls in there, and he has scarycontrol. He puts the ball wherever I put my glove. It's the best anyone can do just to tap the ball back into the infield. Except for P.J., that is.
    P.J. doesn't spend too much time in the infield. He'd rather bat and keeps sneaking back into the box, way out of turn. He grounds out the first couple of times, but once he figures out Sturgis's fastball, he starts lining base hits left and right.
    I think he should show the rest of us how he does it, but his dad drives up and beeps the horn to go home.
    “See you around,” I tell him as he sprints off.
    “Maybe,” he calls back.
    Without P.J., Sturgis is able to cruise past us. It would probably be better to have someone else pitch for a while and let the guys work on their swings, but I'm too stunned by Sturgis to make him stop. It's just fascinating to watch. He proves to be as tireless as he is effective, striking out one batter after another without slowing down.
    A pitcher is only as good as his defense, though, and our defense is terrible. For instance, when Tim grounds a ball to short, Miggy charges it from his spot at third base and fights Steve over it.
    “It's not a contest,” I yell at him. “Know your territory and field it.”
    A few seconds later, David is playing third and Miggy is batting. He squibs it to Sturgis, who picks it up and tosses it to … well, to nobody. There's nobody there. Anthony is playing first base, but he's nowhere near the base.
    “Can I get a little help here?” Sturgis asks.
    “I thought you had it,” says Anthony with a shrug.
    “I guess I'll just have to strike everyone out,” Sturgis grumbles.
    Anthony takes a turn at catcher while I bat. Sturgis does strike me out, but Anthony lets strike three skip off his glove, and I run safely to first.
    Sturgis throws his glove to the ground. “Can you guys maybe get an out once in a while?” he asks.
    “Hey, we're just practicing,” says David. “Take it easy, Scarface.”
    Sturgis makes a move at him, but Steve stops him.
    “Why don't you take your turn at the plate,” says Sturgis to David, trying to pull away from Steve. “I'll throw the base-ball right through your chest, you little maggot.”
    “Chill!” says Anthony.
    “Team meeting,” I holler, coming off first and waving