The Long Run by Leo Furey Page A

but he isn’t disliked. He’s a crazy mix, really.
    He loves girls, which is strange for someone who wants to become a priest. I’ll never forget the Sunday Murphy and Ryan and I arrived at the Bat Cave later than usual. It was freezing cold, and not many Klub members came to the cave when it was that cold. The few who did usually opened the heavy doors and made a fire in the doorway and roasted a few stolen potatoes. This day, as we approached the cave, we heard what sounded like a cry for help. It was a weak singsong cry that came from inside the cave. We were about to race to the sound when Murphy grabbed both of us and, putting a finger to his lips, cautioned us to approach quietly. As we did so, we heard the cries get louder, but they no longer seemed like cries for help. They seemed more like giggles. We opened the door a crack and peeked inside. As our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we noticed two naked bodies rolling around on the earth. They appeared to be wrestling. One was Cross and the other was a young girl. She was skinny, with a flat chest and long brown hair that fell below her shoulders
    â€œJesus! Father Cross !” Murphy whispered.
    â€œWell, I’ll be. Father Cross is getting his skin,” Ryan said.
    â€œFather Cross,” Murphy laughed. “Father fucken Cross.”
    I tell him why we’re feeding Nicky, and he tips his cowboy hat, tears off a few pieces of bread and flips them on the ground. “I love birds,” he says. “If I get enough seagull feathers, I’m gonna make a big headdress like Geronimo wears.”
    Blackie decides to have a game of become the batter. “C’mon, season’s almost over,” he says. “Batter up.” It’s another game he made up. Blackie usually wins because he’s a great catcher. He catches like Willie Mays. Blackie tells me to keep score while I’m fattening up Nicky. Become the batter is a great game. The batter hits grounders and fly balls while the rest try to be first to get a hundred points and become the batter. You get ten points for snagging a grounder, twenty for a one-hopper, and twenty-five for a fly ball. If you miss, you wind up that many points in the minus column. It’s really hard to get points, so you gotta be careful what you try for. There are no rules. Anything is allowed. Tripping a guy so he misses the ball. Kicking stones at grounders. Even tackling a guy is allowed. But it’s good fun.
    Blackie wins the second game by diving for a line drive that caroms off the building. As we cheer his catch, he gets up with that faraway look in his eyes, whispers something to Oberstein and wanders off for a while. When he returns, he whistles for us to huddle around him. He reminds us it’s Wednesday, hump day. He slaps his rump like he’s on a horse and races to the cement porch by the handball court. We all mount up and ride after him. Inside, we huddle again, and he tells us this will be our last wine raid for a while.
    â€œThings are gettin’ a bit spooky,” he says. “Better lay low after this one. Skinny’s joinin’ us tonight. Ryan, you still in?”
    Ryan is nervous. “Yeah, yeah,” he shakes his head.
    â€œNobody forcin’ you,” Blackie says.
    â€œI’m in, I’m in,” Ryan says.
    Blackie reviews the drill for the midnight raid. When he’s sure we all know what to do, he slaps his rump and races back into the yard. “I’m the king of the castle and you’re the dirty rascals,” he hollers. “Three out of five wins.”
    â€œLast norph to the hill’s the rotten egg,” Murphy shouts, squinting in the sun.
    Blackie charges toward the high bank on the far side of the handball court. We love playing king of castle. It’s such fun getting knocked down the bank. Sometimes you laugh till your sides are sore.
    After the last game, we have an hour before supper, so