1
Cow-Country Pitcher
J immy stepped off the mound and jogged toward the dugout, being careful not to step on the first-base line. That’d be bad luck. He was excited now. He’d done well on this first afternoon of tryouts.
The day was overcast and cool, and a few small patches of snow were still melting in the shady spots near the left-field fence. But the baseball diamond was clear and mostly dry. A trickle of sweat ran from Jimmy’s unruly hair onto his cheek. He quickly wiped it away.
The muscular kid that Jimmy had just struck out was frowning as he put his bat in the rack. “What was your name again?” the kid asked.
Jimmy tossed his mitt onto the rickety wooden bench and smiled. Not many kids had bothered talking to him since his arrival in town. “Jimmy Fleming,” he said eagerly. “My friends back home call me Flem.”
The kid made a sour face and said, “Flem?” He thought for a second, squinting and giving the lanky newcomer a good looking-over. “I don’t know where ‘back home’ is, but to me phlegm is something you hack up and spit out.” And he did just that to demonstrate.
“Home is Pennsylvania. And yeah, I’ve heard all the jokes,” Jimmy said, looking away. “They never bothered me.”
The other kid shrugged. “I’m Spencer Lewis,” he said, not smiling. “But you already knew that.”
“I did?”
“You ought to.”
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “That so?”
“Starting shortstop. Leadoff hitter.”
“Wow,” Jimmy said with a lot of sarcasm. This kid seemed pretty full of himself. Jimmy decided to needle him a bit. “So I struck out a big star, huh?”
Spencer winced but gave a half-smile. “I ain’t hearing that noise,” he said. “Everybody knows the pitchers are ahead of the hitters in March. It might take me a minute to get used to a southpaw like you, with that weird left-handed delivery, but tomorrow will be different.”
The coach had said there’d be a full week of tryouts before he cut the roster to eighteen players. Jimmy had counted twenty-nine out for the squad.
“The team’s pretty well set, you know,” Spencer said. “Especially my boys on the pitching staff.”
“I think I got a shot,” Jimmy replied. He could see that Spencer was going to keep busting his chops, letting him know he was an outsider.
“You got okay stuff. We might be able to use you some in relief.”
Jimmy gave Spencer a mean look. “I guess the coaches’ll decide that, won’t they?”
Spencer shrugged. “Yeah. But they want guys who are gonna fit in, Flem. People who know the score.”
“I been pitching for four years,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah, in the sticks.”
“Sticks? Where’d you find a word like that? 1920?”
“What do you call it?”
“Home.”
“Call it whatever you want,” Spencer said. “All I’m saying is there’s a big difference between Hudson City and cow country.”
That stung a little. There actually had been a dairy farm about two hundred yards from the Flemings’ house in Pennsylvania. Jimmy’s mother owned a horse that she boarded there.
Jimmy just smiled, went into a batting stance, and gave a gentle swing. “Strike three,” he said.
“Like I was saying, I ain’t used to lefties right now.”
“And like I said, I think I got a shot. Besides, you ever heard of Christy Mathewson?” he asked, referring to the Hall of Fame pitcher who had grown up in northeastern Pennsylvania.
“Yeah. So?”
“Where do you think he’s from?”
Spencer laughed. “That was, like, forever and two days ago, Flem.”
Head Coach Wimmer walked over and cleared his throat. He was old and paunchy and had been leading the Hudson City Middle School seventh-grade team for more than thirty years. “All right, boys,” he said, eyeing the bunch. “Pretty good for a first day. You’re not quite ready for Yankee Stadium, but we’ll whip you into shape.
“Go on home, lay off the ice cream, and be back here after school tomorrow.” Coach
Cow-Country Pitcher
J immy stepped off the mound and jogged toward the dugout, being careful not to step on the first-base line. That’d be bad luck. He was excited now. He’d done well on this first afternoon of tryouts.
The day was overcast and cool, and a few small patches of snow were still melting in the shady spots near the left-field fence. But the baseball diamond was clear and mostly dry. A trickle of sweat ran from Jimmy’s unruly hair onto his cheek. He quickly wiped it away.
The muscular kid that Jimmy had just struck out was frowning as he put his bat in the rack. “What was your name again?” the kid asked.
Jimmy tossed his mitt onto the rickety wooden bench and smiled. Not many kids had bothered talking to him since his arrival in town. “Jimmy Fleming,” he said eagerly. “My friends back home call me Flem.”
The kid made a sour face and said, “Flem?” He thought for a second, squinting and giving the lanky newcomer a good looking-over. “I don’t know where ‘back home’ is, but to me phlegm is something you hack up and spit out.” And he did just that to demonstrate.
“Home is Pennsylvania. And yeah, I’ve heard all the jokes,” Jimmy said, looking away. “They never bothered me.”
The other kid shrugged. “I’m Spencer Lewis,” he said, not smiling. “But you already knew that.”
“I did?”
“You ought to.”
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “That so?”
“Starting shortstop. Leadoff hitter.”
“Wow,” Jimmy said with a lot of sarcasm. This kid seemed pretty full of himself. Jimmy decided to needle him a bit. “So I struck out a big star, huh?”
Spencer winced but gave a half-smile. “I ain’t hearing that noise,” he said. “Everybody knows the pitchers are ahead of the hitters in March. It might take me a minute to get used to a southpaw like you, with that weird left-handed delivery, but tomorrow will be different.”
The coach had said there’d be a full week of tryouts before he cut the roster to eighteen players. Jimmy had counted twenty-nine out for the squad.
“The team’s pretty well set, you know,” Spencer said. “Especially my boys on the pitching staff.”
“I think I got a shot,” Jimmy replied. He could see that Spencer was going to keep busting his chops, letting him know he was an outsider.
“You got okay stuff. We might be able to use you some in relief.”
Jimmy gave Spencer a mean look. “I guess the coaches’ll decide that, won’t they?”
Spencer shrugged. “Yeah. But they want guys who are gonna fit in, Flem. People who know the score.”
“I been pitching for four years,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah, in the sticks.”
“Sticks? Where’d you find a word like that? 1920?”
“What do you call it?”
“Home.”
“Call it whatever you want,” Spencer said. “All I’m saying is there’s a big difference between Hudson City and cow country.”
That stung a little. There actually had been a dairy farm about two hundred yards from the Flemings’ house in Pennsylvania. Jimmy’s mother owned a horse that she boarded there.
Jimmy just smiled, went into a batting stance, and gave a gentle swing. “Strike three,” he said.
“Like I was saying, I ain’t used to lefties right now.”
“And like I said, I think I got a shot. Besides, you ever heard of Christy Mathewson?” he asked, referring to the Hall of Fame pitcher who had grown up in northeastern Pennsylvania.
“Yeah. So?”
“Where do you think he’s from?”
Spencer laughed. “That was, like, forever and two days ago, Flem.”
Head Coach Wimmer walked over and cleared his throat. He was old and paunchy and had been leading the Hudson City Middle School seventh-grade team for more than thirty years. “All right, boys,” he said, eyeing the bunch. “Pretty good for a first day. You’re not quite ready for Yankee Stadium, but we’ll whip you into shape.
“Go on home, lay off the ice cream, and be back here after school tomorrow.” Coach
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