didn't seem in character for him, somehow.
"Huh," said Ethan. His face went blank. "To each other."
"Come on." Mr. Feld put an arm around Ethan's shoulders, and then draped the other across Jennifer T.'s. "Let's go home."
As she pressed into the warmth of Mr. Feld's embrace, a shudder racked Jennifer T.'s entire body, and she realized for the first time that she was soaked to the skin and freezing. Mr. Feld started to lead them back toward the ball field, but then he stopped. He looked at the heavy equipment, the stacked corpses of the trees, the empty, torn-up patch of earth on which, a hundred years ago, there had once stood a great hotel with tall pointed towers.
"What the hell are they doing here?" he said.
"They're putting out the last little candles, one by one," Ethan said, and even he looked surprised as the words came out of his mouth.
CHAPTER 4
The Middling
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT of Ethan Feld's determination to become a catcher was the discovery, by Jennifer T. Rideout, of a native gift for pitching. The two friends met, on the morning after the loss to the Reds, at the ball field behind Clam Island Middle School, which was closer to either of their houses than Jock MacDougal Field. Ethan brought his father's old mitt and, in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, Peavine's book on catching. Jennifer T. brought an infielder's glove that she had turned up someplace, and the baseball that Ringfinger Brown had given her. When Jennifer T. rocked back and let it fly, it came whistling and fizzing toward Ethan's mitt as if it were powered by steam.
"Ouch!" cried Ethan, the first time the ancient baseball slapped against the heel of his mitt, sending a crackle all the way up his arm to his shoulder. It hurt so much that he did not at first notice that he had held on to the ball. "Hey. You can throw."
"Huh," said Jennifer T., looking at her left hand with new interest.
"That was a fastball."
"Was it?"
"I'm pretty sure."
She nodded. "Cool." She waved her glove at him and he half rose, and arced the ball back to her. His throw was a little high but close enough. She caught it, fingered the ball, then concealed it once more inside her glove.
"So, catcher," she said. "Call the pitch."
"Can you throw the slider?"
"I'd like to see if I can," said Jennifer T. "I know how to put my fingers. I saw it on Tom Seaver's Total Baseball Video " She checked an imaginary runner on first, then turned back to Ethan. He put two fingers down, extending them in an inverted V toward the ground. He was calling for the slider. Jennifer T. nodded, her black ponytail flickering behind her. Her wide, dark eyes were unblinking, and she narrowed them in concentration. She reared back again, her right leg lifting and flexing in a high jabbing kick, then stepped down onto her right foot, bringing her whole body forward and lifting her back leg until it stuck straight out behind her and hung there, wavering. Ethan saw the snap of her hand on the hinge of her wrist. Her fingers blossomed outward and the ball flew toward him in a long, straight line. At the very last second it broke abruptly downward, and he just barely got his glove down and under it in time. By the time you got your bat, if you had been the batter, to the spot at which you hoped your bat would meet it, the ball would have long since dropped away.
"Nasty," Ethan said. He had a sudden protective feeling toward Jennifer T., an urge to encourage and reassure her. This was not because she was a girl, or his friend, or the child of a scattered and troubled family with a father who was in jail yet again, but because he was a catcher, and she was his pitcher, and it was his job to ease her along. "The bottom fell right out of it."
"You caught it real nice," said Jennifer T. "And you had your eyes open all the way."
Ethan felt a flush of warmth fill his chest, but it was short lived, for in the next instant there was a sharp snapping in the blackberry brambles that made the
"Huh," said Ethan. His face went blank. "To each other."
"Come on." Mr. Feld put an arm around Ethan's shoulders, and then draped the other across Jennifer T.'s. "Let's go home."
As she pressed into the warmth of Mr. Feld's embrace, a shudder racked Jennifer T.'s entire body, and she realized for the first time that she was soaked to the skin and freezing. Mr. Feld started to lead them back toward the ball field, but then he stopped. He looked at the heavy equipment, the stacked corpses of the trees, the empty, torn-up patch of earth on which, a hundred years ago, there had once stood a great hotel with tall pointed towers.
"What the hell are they doing here?" he said.
"They're putting out the last little candles, one by one," Ethan said, and even he looked surprised as the words came out of his mouth.
CHAPTER 4
The Middling
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT of Ethan Feld's determination to become a catcher was the discovery, by Jennifer T. Rideout, of a native gift for pitching. The two friends met, on the morning after the loss to the Reds, at the ball field behind Clam Island Middle School, which was closer to either of their houses than Jock MacDougal Field. Ethan brought his father's old mitt and, in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, Peavine's book on catching. Jennifer T. brought an infielder's glove that she had turned up someplace, and the baseball that Ringfinger Brown had given her. When Jennifer T. rocked back and let it fly, it came whistling and fizzing toward Ethan's mitt as if it were powered by steam.
"Ouch!" cried Ethan, the first time the ancient baseball slapped against the heel of his mitt, sending a crackle all the way up his arm to his shoulder. It hurt so much that he did not at first notice that he had held on to the ball. "Hey. You can throw."
"Huh," said Jennifer T., looking at her left hand with new interest.
"That was a fastball."
"Was it?"
"I'm pretty sure."
She nodded. "Cool." She waved her glove at him and he half rose, and arced the ball back to her. His throw was a little high but close enough. She caught it, fingered the ball, then concealed it once more inside her glove.
"So, catcher," she said. "Call the pitch."
"Can you throw the slider?"
"I'd like to see if I can," said Jennifer T. "I know how to put my fingers. I saw it on Tom Seaver's Total Baseball Video " She checked an imaginary runner on first, then turned back to Ethan. He put two fingers down, extending them in an inverted V toward the ground. He was calling for the slider. Jennifer T. nodded, her black ponytail flickering behind her. Her wide, dark eyes were unblinking, and she narrowed them in concentration. She reared back again, her right leg lifting and flexing in a high jabbing kick, then stepped down onto her right foot, bringing her whole body forward and lifting her back leg until it stuck straight out behind her and hung there, wavering. Ethan saw the snap of her hand on the hinge of her wrist. Her fingers blossomed outward and the ball flew toward him in a long, straight line. At the very last second it broke abruptly downward, and he just barely got his glove down and under it in time. By the time you got your bat, if you had been the batter, to the spot at which you hoped your bat would meet it, the ball would have long since dropped away.
"Nasty," Ethan said. He had a sudden protective feeling toward Jennifer T., an urge to encourage and reassure her. This was not because she was a girl, or his friend, or the child of a scattered and troubled family with a father who was in jail yet again, but because he was a catcher, and she was his pitcher, and it was his job to ease her along. "The bottom fell right out of it."
"You caught it real nice," said Jennifer T. "And you had your eyes open all the way."
Ethan felt a flush of warmth fill his chest, but it was short lived, for in the next instant there was a sharp snapping in the blackberry brambles that made the
Similar Books
The Bitter Road to Freedom: The Human Cost of Allied Victory in World War II Europe
William I. Hitchcock
