John's Blog

Chapter 28

The schedule for the second half of the season was a repeat of the first, same teams in the same order, and Carlton couldn’t believe it:  the Braves were on fire.  With the first four games they beat the Marlins (who for some reason didn’t pitch Little Carl Crowther against them), the Mets, the Astros, and the Cubs.  David Slaughter was untouchable.  Damian was glum, but businesslike on the mound.  Carlton called two good games for him, allowing a total of three runs.  Perhaps, Carlton thought, in thinking about his brother’s troubles, he was worrying less about his own pitching and thus performing better.

Carlton was a hitting fool during these games, going eight-for-twelve, with two doubles and a homer.  Every time he stepped into the batter’s box, he went through the Fisk routine, putting his front foot into the water, keeping his back foot out while he looked the bat up and down, finally settling the back foot into the box.  And two times out of three, he’d put the Air C Triple 5 right on the ball, and it would pop.

The rest of the time he went to school, worked at the Java Jive where he bussed and made pies, and talked with Meredith.  Her season was going well, too, almost as perfectly as the Braves’.  Both of them were pleased with their lives although both wished that they were playing on the same team, going to the same school, and working at the same restaurant.  “Except your aunt and uncle probably wouldn’t hire me.  I’m too young.”

“I’m too young, too.”

“Yeah, but you’re family.  You aren’t officially on their payroll.”

Game eleven of the Braves’ season was set for Saturday, against the Pirates, who already had a second-half record of two and two.  A win would lock the second half for the Braves, putting them into the championship playoff against the Marlins.  So a lot was riding on this one, Carlton thought.  Then on Friday he heard that Damian – slated to pitch – was not in school.  No one knew if he was sick or what.

Friday night the phone rang.  Peter spoke for five minutes or so and then, “Thanks, Modest.  We’ll be there.”  He hung up, his face serious.  “That was Coach Smith.  He’s got the team tomorrow.  It’s just the two of us.”

“Where’s Coach LaBonté?”

“Right.  We don’t know.  He’s got some kind of family emergency.”

“Oh, jeeze.  Troy.”

“I guess.”  Then he looked over at Carlton.  “Think you and Mouse will be ready to pitch?”

Neither LaBonté showed up at Jeff Reardon Park Saturday afternoon, and the rest of the Braves discovered their starter was MIA.  The bench was aflutter:  “What’s up with Coach?”  “Where the heck is Damian?”  They looked to Nate and Carlton, offspring of the remaining coaches, but both of them shook their heads.  “Dunno,” said Nate, and Carlton added, “He wasn’t in school yesterday.”

They all looked grim, game faces on.

“Look,” said Carlton.  “This game is serious.  We gotta do this.”

Modest Smith had worked out the lineup.  David Slaughter had no more innings this week, so he played shortstop.  Mouse would pitch at least three, with Carlton relieving as necessary.  Doug Duncan took first, Tran second, and Nelson Morales third.  The outfield comprised Joey Pelletier, Nate, and Jason Allen.  After three innings Phil Thibodeau and John Wilson would come into the outfield.

During their first game, Carlton and the rest of the Braves had spotted the Pirates’ weak link.  Their replacement third baseman was a small, nervous kid named Arnold Wainwright.  When Arnold went to bat, he danced his feet around the box like a little Bojangles.  Amazingly he often put his bat on the ball, but predictably it never went very far, and he seldom reached base.

Arnold’s real problem was in the field.  He danced around any ball hit in his direction, occasionally stopping it, once in a while getting it to first.  He played third like a deer in traffic.  His father, of course, was a Pirate coach, desperately hoping to turn his son into John Valentin.  Arnold tried hard; Carlton felt sorry for him.

By the fifth inning, Carlton was pitching and the Braves were down, 4-3.  Some of this unhappy situation was his fault; when he’d taken the mound in the fourth, the score had been tied.  In the bottom of the fifth, Braves up, Nelson Morales led off, and the Pirates had brought in Arnold Wainwright to do his dance around third base.

Nelson was small, fast, Hispanic, and very smart, but otherwise with average baseball skills, if those.  “Look, Nelson,” said Coach Smith in his ear.  “Bunt.  Just lay it down the third base line.  Then run like fury.”

Nelson nodded, very serious.  In the batter’s box, he squared for the first pitch.

“BUNT!” screamed the Pirate head coach from the dugout.  “Charge it, Arnold!”

The ball plopped down toward third, fair but not far.  The Pirate catcher came down the line and picked it up, but Nelson was already zipping across first, and there was no play.  Meanwhile Arnold had not budged from his spot well back of third, wary of any hot grounders that might be scorched his way.  Nate was next up, and when he too squared to bunt, the Pirate coach was standing:  “BUNT!  ARNOLD!  PULL IN, DAMMIT!”  Carlton could see Arnold’s father sitting in the dugout.  His face was as blank as a thin slab of granite.

Arnold made a couple of dancing steps forward, and Nate bunted, hard, the ball bouncing up right to Arnold, an easy play; but he grabbed it and winged it seven feet over the first baseman’s glove.  On the error, the umpire waved Nate and Nelson to second and third.  From the dugout, Carlton watched everything. Arnold was now sitting in the basepath near third.  He was crying.

“GET UP, ARNOLD!” boomed out in the Pirate coach’s foghorn voice.

Carlton could never figure why the coaches didn’t call time and at least try to settle Arnold down.  Maybe they didn’t realize he was as shaken as he was.  Or maybe, Carlton thought, maybe the coach was so sick of Arnold’s father’s pushing him to play the kid at third base that he decided to let things fall out as they might.  Whatever, after the boy got up, he walked back to his position at third and stood there, quivering.

With runners at second and third and the infield drawn in, Mouse came up to bat.  He smacked the first pitch right through Arnold’s legs, and Nelson raced in to score.  From the on-deck circle Carlton was focusing on Arnold rather than following the ball or the runners; the boy was wobbling furiously, lurching, jerking himself backwards in front of the basepath.  He looked like a drunken marionette.  Nate, who was a good-sized kid, had his head down and was charging toward third like the cavalry.  And suddenly Arnold jerked back right into his path.

Bang!  He was absolutely flattened, completely motionless on his stomach.  Now he looked like roadkill.

Nate, unfazed by his collision, rounded third and came barreling across the plate.  Mouse stopped at second. For a moment, nobody on the field seemed to be paying any attention to Arnold, as he lay inert in the basepath.  Carlton looked for an instant at Mr. Wainwright, standing bemused in the Pirates’ dugout, and then back to see that Arnold was now surrounded by coaches and umpires and a couple of players.  It took a long time to get him up.

Eventually the game ended, the Braves winning 5-4 and thus clinching the second half of the season.  They would play one more regular season game, against the Cardinals, but it didn’t matter.  They had sewn it up, and in a week and a half they would face the Marlins for the town championship.  There were some high fives, and some backslapping in the dugout, but generally the team’s joy was muted.  They all had thought winning would be a bigger deal, but without Damian and his father, they didn’t feel like celebrating at all.

Carlton came out of the dugout with Peter, looking for Aster.  Instead, he saw Arnold sitting alone, his back next to a fence, his face aimed at the ground, hidden by the bill of his Pirates’ cap.  “Just a minute,” and Carlton went over, dropped his equipment bag, and slid his back down the fence so the two boys were sitting side by side.  They began to talk, and after a minute or so, Arnold came out from under the cap, and they kept talking.

Peter watched them for a minute and then went to find Aster, who had been in the bleachers with some other parents.  “Where’s Carlton?” she asked.

“He’ll be along.”  Then he added, “He’s talking to the boy who got run over in the basepath.”

“Oh, dear.  That was dreadful.”

They sat down on the bleachers, which had pretty much cleared out.  Another game was scheduled for four o’clock.  Peter turned to his wife.  “Would you mind calling Allie LaBonté?  Maybe ask them over for dinner?”

“Sure.  Good idea.  If they’re home.”  She looked at him and smiled.  “Good coaching, Pete.”

After ten minutes or so Carlton came up to them, his equipment bag slung over his shoulder.  “So, what’d you say to him?” asked Peter.

“Oh, nothing.  I said he ought to ask the coach to move him to the outfield.  He’d do better out there.  And I told him that he must have good hand-eye to get his bat on the ball so often.  I told him what my dad had told me about keeping his feet still in the batter’s box.  He knew about the way I step in.  That was why I did it, I said.  To keep my feet still.”

They were looking at him with wide eyes.

“That’s what you said?” asked Aster.

“Ayup.”  Then he shook his head.  “Oh, and he goes to the other middle school, so he didn’t know my story.  I told him about not talking for the first two months I was here in Hollis.  I said that baseball had pretty much saved me.  And I said if I could do it, so could he.”

Chapter 27

Nowadays Carlton spent some of his lunchtime scouting.  He got along with most kids, even players he’d faced on opposing teams, so he’d often sit down at a table with an Astro or a Met or, heck, even a Marlin, unless it were somebody he thought was a buddy with Corn Crowther.  Then they’d talk baseball.  Eventually he’d bring up players for teams he hadn’t seen yet, or sometimes as kids they had both faced, to compare notes. He especially liked talking to a catcher, because catchers knew.  Could a certain kid hit a fastball?  Could another wait patiently for a ball in the zone?  If the conversation moved to players he’d seen but they hadn’t, he gave his own impressions, diplomatically yet candidly.  Fair was fair.

So he sat today with a couple of Astros, two ten-year-olds, swapping baseball tales.  He told them about Meredith’s triple, which pleased them enormously.  Then they talked about the Cardinals, who had recently walloped the Astros.  “They got a moose of a pitcher named Brian,” said one of them.  “But they didn’t use him against us.  They used an eleven-year-old, Ivan Morales.  He was pretty fast.  Good control.”

“And they got some hitters?” asked Carlton.

“Oh, jeeze.  At least four that can go long.  We had our best guy out there, who’s fast but sorta wild.  Whew.  They hammered him.”

“Who are their big bats?”

They gave him some names, and then they went on to cover other players around the league.

None of the players he talked with seemed to care much for the Marlins.  Everyone knew that the Braves were no longer invincible, and this year the Fish were the guys to beat.  Most of his informants were willing to share information; in fact, once they got going they were hard to stop.  Later he would add their new intelligence into his book:  who could hit, who could bunt, who could run, who could be intimidated, and who couldn’t.  Some of the information might not be particularly reliable, but it could be tested.  He knew, when the second half of the season came, he would be ready.

On the first Thursday in May, they faced the Cubs, who had had one victory so far this season, and that against the Astros.  They handled them easily, 6-3, and once again, Carlton pitched three innings, alternating with Mouse.  On Saturday David Slaughter pitched against the Pirates, ending his six innings with a 2-2 tie.  Little League allows a pitcher to go a maximum of only six innings per week, so David had to come off the mound.  The Braves had to go with their final reserve pitcher, Doug Duncan, normally on first base or in the outfield.  Although Doug did not have much of a fastball, he sometimes had decent control; however, when he took the mound on this day, the control was elsewhere.  He walked two and gave up a double; and in the bottom of the inning the Braves’ offense collapsed completely, three up, three down:  final score, Pirates 3, Braves 2.

So the first half of the season came down to the sixth game with three teams – the Marlins, the Cardinals, and the Braves – tied for first place, with identical records of 3-2.  The last game would eliminate at least one, since the Cardinals and the Braves were playing each other on Tuesday.

Ah, the gods of baseball:  for the Braves the game was a disaster.  Damian, as those gods sometimes say, couldn’t find the plate with a road map.  Carlton tried, but he couldn’t settle him down.  And the Cardinals’ moose, whose full name was Brian Taggart, brought his best stuff to the game, and the gods sat up there in their special bleachers smacking their lips.  Even though he had been prepared by the scouting report, Carlton couldn’t touch Brian’s fastball, not on this day, and no one else could either.  The Braves lost 8-0.  Meanwhile the Marlins won their final first-half game, so – with two 4-2 teams, there would be a play-off under the lights on the next Tuesday, May 18.

Carlton – and his notebook – would be there.

The weather was horrible, as the Marlins and the Cardinals headed out to face each other.  The temperature was in the high 50’s, and a thin, chilly drizzle was falling.  Carlton and Peter were sitting with the Smiths, Nathan and his father, Modest, the other assistant coach.

“Do you think they’ll actually play this game?” asked Peter.

Modest looked over with a wry smile.  “I bet they do.”  Modest was dry and funny, and he knew a lot about baseball.  Carlton didn’t really know him, but liked what he saw.

“Tell me about the Cardinals’ coaches,” said Peter.  There were two in evidence, an older man who moved slowly and walked with a pronounced limp, and a younger, in his mid-twenties, who did most of the actual coaching.  Both Peter and Carlton had noticed them during their game against the Cardinals, but hadn’t asked.

“That’s Jimmy McCarthy, the older guy, and his son, Tommy,” Modest said.  “He started coaching when Tommy was a Cardinal.  He liked it so much that he kept on coaching through Tommy’s high school years.  Tommy went to prep school to play ball, but when the old man had a stroke, he came home to help him.  Jimmy recovered, but his speech is slow and he needs a leg brace to get around.  So Tommy stayed here in Hollis, lives at home, and goes to the community college.  Together they coach the team, though Tommy does most of the heavy lifting.”

Carlton looked at the two men moving to the plate with their lineup card, to meet with the umpires and with Coach Big Carl “Clam” Crowther.  He felt a lump in his throat; he would have given a great deal to be in Tommy’s shoes and have even a disabled father.

“They’ve done a good job, those McCarthys,” he said.  “Here they are in the playoffs.”

The only surprise about the game was that – despite the conditions – it was well-played.  Corn Crowther pitched for the Marlins, Brian Taggart for the Cards.  Both boys brought their A games.  The booming voice of Coach Clam came roaring out of the dugout whenever he was irritated about something – regularly.  “Come on, come on, Little Carl!  Don’t give in to this twerp!”

“I’m surprised they let him coach,” said Peter.

“Yeah,” said Modest.  “He’s like Polyphemos in his cave.”

“Who?” asked Carlton and Peter together.

“Oh, sorry.  He’s the Cyclops that yells at Odysseus and eats some of his men.  I’m teaching The Odyssey right now.  Polyphemos is in my head.”

“Are you a teacher?” asked Carlton.

“Yup.  At Andover High School.”  Looking over at Peter and Carlton, he noted and read their quizzical looks.  “I couldn’t afford to live in Andover on a teacher’s salary.”

They laughed, Peter somewhat ruefully.

Out at the field the lights were illuminating the fine drizzle against the clouds.  Carlton thought it looked like those shots on television games when the rain seems to shimmer against the black sky, and the announcers wonder if the umps will suspend the play.

“I wrote a haiku for games like this,” said Modest.  “You know what that is, Carlton?”

“Ayuh.  A Japanese poem.  We wrote some in school.  The syllables go five-seven-five.  What was yours?”

He smiled.  “Sheets of fine black rain/Shimmer into the green grass./Where is Spahn, or Sain?”

Carlton laughed, but Peter was confused.  “Who?”

Carlton answered.  “Famous pitchers for the old Braves in Boston. They were terrific, but the Braves didn’t have anyone else.  There was a poem about them:  ‘Spahn and Sain and pray for rain.’”

In the fifth the score was 2-1, the Marlins on top, when Corn Crowther’s stuff went a bit haywire.  The leadoff Cardinal banged a single.  Then Corn uncorked a beauty of a wild pitch, which sailed through the drizzle all the way to the backstop, sending the runner to second.  “Come on, Little Carl!  Dang it!  Throw a frikkin’ strike!”

Instead, Corn threw it into the dirt.  The catcher blocked it, but it rolled away.  Carlton winced, sympathetic, and the runner took off for third.  The catcher scrabbled after the ball and threw down the line; the ball, the fielder and the runner arrived at third, more or less simultaneously.

Except that the runner got there first, sliding through the wet sandy clay.  He was safe.  He knew it, the fans knew it, the Marlins and Cardinals all knew it.  The only person who didn’t know it was the umpire, who shouted, “OUT!”

The younger McCarthy coach, Tommy, who was in the third-base coach’s box and thus saw the play better than anyone else, couldn’t believe the call.  “Aw, come on, ump!  He was safe!  A mile!”

The umpire said, “He was OUT!”

Tommy turned away, his lips moving, although most of the fans could not hear what he said.  But the umpire apparently could, for he pointed at him and yelled, “YOU’RE OUTTA HERE!”

Tommy put his hands in his pockets and walked right out along the third-base line into the dark soft rain toward the parking lot.  He did not look back.  It was like the end of a movie.

The fans were shocked into silence.  “Play ball,” yelled the umpire.  Somehow the number two batter singled, and even got as far as second on a ground out, but the next batter struck out.

The rain kept falling over the scoreless sixth, and the game ended 2-1.  The Marlins were the first half winners, and were guaranteed a spot in the town championships.

As the four of them walked to the parking lot, Carlton said, “It was a ridiculous call.  He was totally safe.  By a couple of seconds.”

“What did the coach say?” asked Modest.  “Could you hear him?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Nathan, his eyes dancing with mischief.  “He said, ‘Bullshhhh!’”

“You know,” said Modest.  “I wrote another poem for an occasion like this.  Want to hear it?”

“Yeah,” said the other three.

“Beware of the blue-shirted ump.

He stands at his post like a stump.

If you don’t like the calls

Of his strikes and his balls,

He’ll run you, he’ll toss you, the grump.”

Chapter 26

Some of the Braves were eating lunch together in the cafetorium on Monday:  Carlton, Tran, Philip Thibodeau, Nathan Smith, and Damian.  Two of them were wearing dark blue Braves tee shirts; Nathan had number 10 with “Jones” across the back, while Damian wore number 31, “Maddux.”  Of course none of them wore their “A” for Atlanta caps.  This was school.

Carlton was describing Meredith’s game, sounding something like Jerry Trupiano giving a recap:  “Score’s tied at 4 all.  One out, bases juiced.  Meredith comes up.  The Giant coach starts giving her abuse because she’s a girl.  Yells out to his guys to pull in, force at the plate, then cut her down at first.  Really sick.”

“No way,” said Philip.

“And the fans, the moms and the dads, even some of the Giant moms and dads, start chanting, “Asshole.  Asshole.”

“No way,” they all said together.

“Way,” said Carlton.  “And then she crushes a triple, driving in everyone on base.  The Orioles win, 8-4, because the next kid up sacrifices Meredith home.  It was awesome!”

The boys were laughing, clapping, cheering even.  Others in the cafetorium looked over at them, but they took no notice.  “What a great girl,” said Tran.

“Great girl?” asked Nathan.  “Great player!”

Afterwards, Damian was slow to leave the table, and Carlton reached over to touch his arm.  “Meredith said you guys talked, but she didn’t say what.”

“Yeah.”  He could not meet Carlton’s gaze.

“What’s up?”

Damian looked at the table for so long that Carlton almost asked again.  But he kept quiet.  Finally, “Troy’s off the high school ball team.”

Both boys were silent.  At last Carlton asked, “How come?”

“He got caught smoking pot.  I never knew.  After a practice he and another kid were smoking behind the high school.  A cop busted him, and the coach came by.”

“Oops.  That’s bad.”

Damian put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.  Carlton could barely hear his mumbles.  “My dad is crazy mad.  I’m scared to play ball.  If I screw up, he might like go Terminator on me.”

Carlton thought for a bit.  “Look.  After school come with me.  We can go over to the Java Jive.  I’ll show you how to bake pies.  It’s sorta fun.  And we can talk.  Maybe with Uncle Pete.  You know he saved my life.  Maybe he can help with yours.”

When they got there, the Java Jive was packed, the Town Council, some shoppers, and a pack or two of high school students hanging out, drinking coffee and snacking, more than one of them forking in a piece of Carlton’s pie.  The regulars greeted him warmly:  “Hey, Carlton”; “Gotta get going on some more pies, buddy”; “How’s the season going, anyways?”

He introduced Damian to some of them, the baseball followers.  “He’s one of our rock solid pitchers.  Our Derek Lowe.”

Damian blushed, and the old timers cackled.  “Come on,” said Carlton, leading him into the kitchen.  “I’m serious.  You gotta learn how to make pies.”

Soon they were washed and aproned, up to their elbows in flour.  Carlton showed him how to cut in the shortening with a pastry cutter, how to mix in the water, slowly, slowly.

“It’s like making mud pies,” said Damian.

When they each had a bowl of dough, they put both of them in the reefer to chill.  Then they sat down at the table.  “Okay,” said Carlton.  “We got to peel some apples.”

“How come apples in a blueberry pie?”

“It’s way cheaper than all blueberries.  And it tastes just as good.”  He put a bowl of apples, an empty bowl, and a couple of peelers in the middle of the table.  “Don’t cut your thumb off.  Can’t pitch without it.”

Damian smiled, and they began paring.  “So,” said Carlton after they’d done three or four each.  “What’s Troy thinking about?”

Peter popped in just in time to hear him.  “Something up with Troy?”

“Come here, Uncle Pete.  I told Damian you could help.”

Haltingly, Damian put his peeler down and told him the story:  the cop, the bust, the coach, the getting kicked off the team.  “Coach.  Did my father tell you about this?”

“Nope.  And I can hold my tongue for now.  But it explains why last game he sat in the dugout slamming a ball from one hand to the other.  Tell me, did they arrest Troy?”

Damian shook his head.  “My father talked with the cops.  They said they’d let him handle it.”  All at once he started to cry.  “Why’d he do this?”

“It’s okay, buddy,” said Peter.

“No it’s not.  Baseball is really important.  Not just to my father.  Important for the colleges, too.  Troy’s a good pitcher.  He was having a good season.  Some college scouts were talking about looking at him.  Next year he’s a senior, and without baseball he won’t look good to colleges.  He might have even gone D-1.  Well, maybe.  Now he’s screwed.”

The three of them sat looking into the middle of the table.  Suddenly there was a crash from out in the restaurant.

“Oops,” said Peter.  “Look, I got to get back out there.  Why don’t you guys finish those pies?  Then it’ll be time to close.  Damian, call your folks, tell ‘em you’re eating with us.  Maybe we can come up with a plan.”

They sat around the dinner table – Peter, Aster, Carlton, and Damian – talking frankly about Troy.  Damian said that about a month ago, his brother had started to change, turning silent, non-responsive, without much interest in anything, especially baseball.  “I think he just got sick of my father getting on his back.  He can get intense.”

Privately Carlton thought Damian had pretty much nailed that one.  Aster said that the marijuana sounded like it wasn’t going to just go away.  “It sounds like he’s got a commitment to the stuff, if you know what I mean.”

Peter nodded.  “Look, Damian.  Whatever happens, this is not your fault.  We’ll help you any way we can.  I know every cop in Hollis.  They all come in here.  I’ll do some intelligence work on Troy.  Quietly.”

Then Aster asked what Carlton was thinking was the Big One:  “Do you really like baseball, Damian?  Is it all worth it for you?”

He didn’t hesitate.  “Sure it is.  I’m having fun this year.  Especially pitching to Carlton.  He makes me look good.”

“How so?” asked Peter.

“I haven’t thrown a wild pitch so far this season.  Carlton stops everything.  And he can really frame a pitch.”

“What’s that?” asked Aster.

“When he catches a ball that’s a little off the plate, he slides the mitt back, very smooth.  So I get more strike calls.  Last winter Troy told me Carlton handles pitchers better than lots of high school catchers.”  He paused.  “Plus, Carlton, you are a really good kid.  Don’t get a big head about it, but you are.”

Carlton pinked up.

They had some Ben and Jerry’s Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz for dessert and talked about the season.  The Braves had so far won two – the Marlins and the Astros – and lost one – the Mets.  Their next game would be against the hapless Cubs.

“We’re doing good,” said Damian.  “My father likes what’s going on.  The team we got to beat is the Marlins.  Those Crowthers are tough.  We’re tied with them now, but we got two tough games before the half, and they got some easy competition.  We play the Pirates and the Cardinals – and the Marlins already beat those guys.”

When he drove him home, Peter stopped at the Java Jive and brought out one of Damian’s bluebapple pies, marked with a DLB instead of a CS.  “Take this home to your mother.  Show her what you did today.  Make her proud.”

“Good idea,” said Damian.  “She could use a little pride.”

Chapter 25

A baseball game ends, with one winner and one loser, and really that’s it until another one starts, and then that one ends and another starts, and another, until it doesn’t.  The season goes on inexorably, win or lose, until finally it ends: a metaphor for life.

The Hollis Little League season was bifurcated.  Every team played six games in three weeks, with a first half champion anointed at the finish.  There was a week’s hiatus, during which time makeup games were played, and – if a tie made it necessary – a playoff was conducted.  Then they played a second half of six more games. If the a different team won the second half, the two teams played to named the Hollis champion; if the same team won both halves, the second place team of the second half played in the championship playoff:  no matter what, great excitement and hoopla.

Carlton and Meredith were on the phone most nights.  Both had won their season openers; both had lost their second games.  Damian was the Braves’ loser, having given up a three-run homer in the fifth.  “He hit my spot,” said Carlton gloomily.  “The kid went out to get it, poked it over the opposite fence.  It was all my fault.”

“Oh, crap,” said Meredith.  “Damian threw the pitch.  Just like I did.”  She had coughed up a two-run double, from which her Orioles had not recovered.  “Still, Coach Merriman said I did okay.  There was no support.  We got shut out.”

They talked about their upcoming schedules.  This weekend Carlton played on Saturday morning, and her game was Sunday afternoon.  “Look,” she said.  “My mom and dad would like to see you play.  Me, too.  We’ll drive down for your game, and then drive you back to Wiscasset.  You can spend the night and see my game.”

“Cool.  I think Coach is going to let me pitch some.  He wants to see if I can be useful in a pinch.”

“Great,” she said.  “Pitch in a pinch.”

At the Java Jive his pies were flying out the door, as the Town Council exulted over his exploits.  The Hollis Observer, which came out every Thursday, reported all the games, the accounts written with varying degrees of accuracy by high school sports journalist wannabes.

“Read about your double play, Carlton.  Two-six-two-five,” said one.

“What’s that mean?” asked another, less of a baseball savant.

“Carlton at catcher, number two, throws to the shortstop, number six, who throws back to Carlton, still two.  Carlton tags the runner, then throws to the third baseman, number five, who tags out another runner.”

Carlton grinned.  “That’s the Zipper.  The throw to the shortstop is a decoy.”

The old men cackled, and several ordered second pieces of pie.

When Carlton took the mound against the Astros on Saturday, he was sweating.  Nobody took the Astros seriously; they had been cellar-dwellers last year, and the draft hadn’t really helped them that much.  The prospect of pitching didn’t scare him particularly.  He knew he could throw hard and accurately, and he knew Mouse could catch, had been the backup backstop last season.  So he shouldn’t have worried.  But bugs were bouncing in his bowels.

It was Meredith sitting in the stands, watching him.

He could see her in her Orioles cap with Sam, Kim, and Aster – who had shut the Java Jive at 9:30 with a sign:  “Closed for Carlton’s Game.  Back at Noon.”

Carlton’s first warmup sailed over Mouse’s head all the way to the backstop.  Mouse retrieved it, threw it back, and waved to him, signaling “settle down” with the mitt palm down.  He took a deep breath and felt the calm arrive with his father’s voice:  “Hey, bud.  This is baseball.  It’s always fun, even when it isn’t.”

Pitching out of a stretch, he threw the ball right over the top, and it started coming in.  The game began, and three innings zipped by – one hit, one error, no bases on balls.  Then he and Mouse traded places, and three more innings zipped by – no runs, two hits, no errors, and two bases on balls.  The Astros lived down to their reputation.  Meanwhile, Carlton got two hits, and the Braves scored four runs.

Afterwards, Meredith actually hugged him, and he wasn’t embarrassed at all, just happy.  Then Coach LaBonté came up to them.  “That was good stuff, Carlton.  Nice to have another arm in the bullpen.”

“Thanks, Coach.”  He introduced Meredith.  “She plays baseball up in Maine.”

“Does she?”  The coach raised an eyebrow.

“She pitches too.  She’s good.”

“Is she?”  He seemed amazed.

Meredith smiled, then went off to chat with Tran.  As Carlton went to visit with his family and hers, he noticed her having a long talk with Damian.

“I’m so glad we came,” said Kim, whose face was glowing.  “You played well.  And Meredith was over the moon.”

“She made me nervous at first,” Carlton confessed.

“Yeah,” said Peter.  “Don’t blame you.  She is cute.  I’d feel some pressure, myself.”

As they rolled up I-495 and then I-95 toward the Pine Tree State, Carlton – showered and wearing civvies – sat in the back with Meredith, the two of them talking mostly baseball.  She had been impressed with his pitching.

“You still throw like a catcher, right off your ear, but you get some zip on it, and you got great control.  You like being out there?”

“It’s okay.”

And they went on dissecting the game.  At one point she said, “Look.  Damian’s got some trouble.  He said it was something about his brother.  That Troy kid who helped you.”

Carlton looked at her doubtfully.

“Hey,” she said.  “You know trouble better than anyone.  Damian’s a friend.  A teammate.  You can help him.”

He looked out the window.  They were going over the big bridge that crossed the Piscataqua River from New Hampshire into Maine.  They seemed as high as an airplane.  “Sure,” he said.  “Course I will.”

Then they were coming down off the bridge into Maine.  “Worth a visit/Worth a lifetime,” read a billboard.  For some reason that made Carlton think of his father, and a lump grew in his throat.

It was close to four o’clock when they came rolling past Wiscasset’s “Prettiest Village in Maine” sign on Route 1.  When Carlton caught sight of it, his heart seized up again.  Tears began to press into his eyes, and he bent his head.

Meredith was watching him; surprised, she followed his gaze, saw the sign, and immediately understood.  She reached over and patted his shoulder.  Meanwhile Carlton swallowed and found his voice:  “Can we stop by the house?”

Everyone heard the catch in his voice, yet neither of the adults turned around.  “Sure,” said Sam.  “You should see it anyhow.”

So they turned down Sortwell Road, the trees thick, dimming the afternoon light, and then they swung into the yard.  The place was immaculate, raked, trimmed.  A Jetta and a Civic were parked in front.

“Good,” said Sam.  “The tenants are here.  You can meet them.”

The smell of pine needles was strong and sweet.  Carlton’s forehead was damp with sweat.  As they stepped out of the car, the front door opened and three people emerged onto the porch, two women and a man.  They were young, early twenties, all wearing jeans and Bean chamois shirts, like a uniform, Carlton thought.

“Hey, guys,” Sam called.  “Come meet your landlord.”

They came chattering down the steps.  Carlton had been told they were Bowdoin students, seniors, willing to put up with the twenty-mile commute to campus in order to live in peace among the pines.  They introduced themselves with careful politeness; they knew his story.  To Carlton’s delight, the man’s name turned out to be Maurice Vaughn.  “Do they call you ‘Mo’?” he asked.

Maurice smiled and shook his head.  “Carlton, we are so glad to meet you.  We love your house, and we promise to take really good care of it.”

Once again his throat seized on him.  He put out his hand but looked at his feet.  They could barely hear his voice.  “Thanks.”

“Do you want to see inside?” asked one of the girls, but he shook his head.

They made their good-byes and got back in the Beemer.  As they pulled out, Meredith caught sight of his face.  Moving over, she put her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close; and almost silently he wept a tide of hot tears against her neck.  She patted his back.  “It’s okay,” she said, and again, “It’s okay.”

Back at the Sewalls’ house Carlton recovered.  They all ate an early supper and went early to bed.  The next morning Kim ran the schedule gently but firmly:  after breakfast she herded them to church, St. Philip’s Episcopal, stone and stained glass, dark walnut pews.  Church was a new experience for Carlton – and not a common one for Meredith, for that matter – but he settled into it softly, feeling washed in ritual and organ music and murmured human voices, emerging finally at peace.

Then, returned to the house, she directed them to cut long yellow spears of forsythia, from the big bush blooming like sunshine in the front yard.  She filled a heavy glass vase with water, and they drove the short distance to the cemetery, where Carlton sat cross-legged beside his parents’ graves, holding the vase.  In his mind he told his father about his season thus far.  Then he stood up and set the flowers between the two headstones.

“I’ll come back later in the week for the vase,” said Kim.

“Come on, Meredith,” he said.  “You got a game.”

The Wiscasset Little League played their games on the field beside the Middle School, which wasn’t very fancy, at least by Jeff Reardon Park standards.  No dugouts:  the teams sat on permanent benches, their supports set in the ground.  Bleachers were put up each spring behind the benches, so each team’s supporters could sit behind their players and bellow encouragement and instruction.

Meredith’s Orioles were playing the Giants, and Carlton knew a number of the players.  While the teams were gathering, he went among them.  The first person he spoke to was Diddler Merriman, the coach.

“Hey, Coach Merriman.”

“God bless, it’s Carlton.”  The chubby, weathered face passed from a smile to a rictus of distress, settling finally on seriousness.  “How you doing?  Terrible about your dad.”

“Ayuh,” said Carlton, equally serious.  “I’m living with my aunt and uncle in Massachusetts.  Playing some ball down there.”

“Well, good.”  He paused.  “Say.  Thanks for the tip on your friend.  Meredith.  She’s a secret weapon.  Well, not so secret anymore.  But this is our first game against the Giants.  They don’t know her.  Yet.”

They shook hands, and then Billy Stevens and some other kids came up to slap his back and high-five him.  “Great to see you, man.”

Meredith didn’t start, but it was a good game anyhow.  At the end of three innings it was tied at 4-4.  She came in at first base, and Carlton watched her with pleasure, trim in her uniform, her braid – not long yet, but growing back – emerging from the hole above her hatband like a short rope of honey.  The Oriole parents were all shouting with enthusiasm, and he and the Sewalls cheered from the bottom of their lungs when she took her position.

She came to bat at a particularly tense moment in the fifth inning:  score still tied, bases loaded, one out.  The Giants’ coach – a noisy, nasty bulldozer operator named Warren Tupper – suddenly noticed her braid and jumped up, yelling to his team:  “Hey!  She’s a girl, for the sake of Jesus!  Pull in!  Pull in!  She can’t hit!  Force at the plate, then get the double play at first!  Jesus!  She’s a girl!”

Silence fell like toxic dust over the entire field as the players on both teams stared at the coach in astonishment.  Slowly the Giant infielders began creeping in.  Then the adults behind the Oriole bench began chanting, quietly at first but gradually growing louder:  “Asshole.  Asshole.  Asshole!  ASSHOLE!  ASSHOLE!  ASSHOLE!”

The ump, whom Carlton did not know, took off his mask and looked around in confusion.  Meanwhile, Warrant Tupper turned to the Oriole side in fury, but then noticed that some of his own fans had joined the chorus:  “ASSHOLE!  ASSHOLE!”  Abruptly he sat down.

Diddler Merriman, his face split in a huge grin, stood and turned to his fans, putting his finger to his lips.  Then he silently mouthed the offending word.  As the noise eventually subsided, Meredith stepped into the batter’s box.  Carlton noticed her bat, the Air-C-Triple-5, bright and shining against her shoulder.  She swung it back and forth, deliberately, getting settled.

The first pitch was in the dirt, but the Oriole catcher smothered it.  Carlton was glad of that; he always hated to see a catcher get blamed for a run.

“Throw strikes, damn it!” shouted Warren Tupper.  “She’s a girl!”  And so the pitcher grooved one, and Meredith smacked it between the center and right fielders, the ball rolling all the way to the fence.  By the time it had been tracked down and thrown back to the infield, three runs were in and Meredith was standing on third.  Fans of both teams were hooting and hollering – “Meredith!  Meredith!” – and Meredith was forced to tip her hat to the crowd.  The Giant third baseman held out his throwing hand to her, and she slapped him five.

The Orioles won, 8-4.

After the game Carlton said, “You know, Meredith, the Air-C-Triple-5 is a great bat.”  She started to laugh and then they were both laughing and Carlton thought that joy would fill him and carry him up in the air like a balloon.

Chapter 24

The Braves sat on the long bench of the dugout, their faces as solemn as Old Testament judges.  Shadows were starting to stretch across the field as the sun moved lower.  Coaches Smith and Tarbell stood to the side, and Coach LaBonté was pacing up and down in front of the boys, speaking harshly and urgently:

“Today is all about focus.  No distractions.  Be aware of three things at all times.  The ball:  don’t ever stop watching it, even when it’s in the pitcher’s glove.  Your teammates:  you gotta know where they are all of them, all the time.  And yourself:  always remember where you are, where you’re going, and why.  No falling asleep on our field.  Stay wide awake.”

Carlton – who was beyond excitement and doing his best not to show it – was impressed by this speech.  Excellent advice:  certainly it spoke to him.  Keep your head, Carlton, he was thinking.  Keep your head.

The game was almost ready to start.  The Braves were playing the Marlins, a team that as yet meant nothing to him.  He had listened to the others, who were expecting a tough game, but since he knew so few of the kids in Hollis, for him every team would be a new mountain to climb.

“Okay,” said Coach.  “We got lots of ten-year-olds this year, so some of them will play the whole game.  Most of you know the playing rule:  every player on the team is guaranteed three innings in each game, or we automatically forfeit.  So after the third inning everyone on the bench will go into the game.”

He took a breath.  Here it comes, thought Carlton.  “Tonight David Slaughter will start on the mound, and Carlton will catch.  Here’s the starting lineup…”

Carlton didn’t hear anything else for a minute or so.  A warm rush washed over him, and he thought again of his father, heard his voice:  “Keep a steady target up there, and watch the ball all the way into the mitt.  Oh, and keep your throwing hand protected behind the mitt.”  There was more to it than this, he knew, but then his head came back to the dugout and the team and the coach, ever serious, ever unsmiling.  “… Sortwell catching is sixth, Pelletier at first is seventh, Thibodeau in left is eight, and Wilson in right is ninth.”  He paused, looked at them hard.  “Let’s make this a winning season, boys.”  They all cheered.

Then the Marlins, who were the home team for this game, took the field.  Carlton sat down beside David Slaughter, whose face was set in his serious sneer expression.

Carlton spoke quietly.  “You know these guys.  I’m thinking you’ll come mostly with heat, and we’ll move in and out, see where they’re weak.  Throw a change once in a while.  Does that sound right?”

David Slaughter looked at him.  “Okay, rook.  Sounds good.  If I remember something about someone, I’ll call you out.”

As the Marlins began warming up for the first inning, Carlton cleared a space on the bench for himself and his gear.  Pulling out his shinguards, he snapped the straps around his legs.  Then he took out of the bag a pen and a spiral notebook, and opened to the first page.  At the top he wrote, “April 24, 7 PM, Marlins.  D. Slaughter.”  He moved down to the end of the bench, where Modest Smith was teaching Uncle Pete how to keep a scorebook.

Carefully, in small script, he copied the lineup onto the page, last name and initial of each player, noting the position, skipping a line between each name.  “What’s that?” asked his uncle.

“My book,” he said.

Coach Smith looked up from the scorebook.  “We’ll keep score for you, Carlton.  You don’t have to.”

“Ayup,” he said and smiled.  Then he went back to his place.

The first half of the first inning went all too quickly.  Batting second, Damian flied out to center; the other two struck out.  The Marlins had a moose out there, a huge twelve-year-old who could throw hard; Carlton thought Damian had done well to get his bat on the ball.

“Need to swing quicker,” growled his father when he got back to the dugout.

And then the Marlins were up, and Carlton was behind the plate, working hard.  David Slaughter was throwing hard too, but all over the place.  The first Marlin struck out, waving helplessly at some high hard ones.  Could of walked, thought Carlton.  The next batter did walk.  Carlton was leaping around, stopping most of the balls.  With the next batter, one fastball in the dirt got by and went to the backstop, and there was a Marlin on second, one out, a 2-2 count.  Carlton went out to the mound.

His voice was calm.  “Okay.  This guy is almost set up.  Give me your best heater, and hit my glove.  If it doesn’t get him, the next pitch will be your change.  He’ll come right out of his sneakers.”

David smiled, the little scar on his upper lip spreading.

On the next pitch, which Carlton was glad to see right on the money, the batter poked a sharp liner to Jason Allen at second, who caught it and beat the runner to the base for a double play.  The first inning was in the books.

When he got back to the dugout and shed his gear, Carlton picked up his book and started writing.  “What’s that?” asked Tran, sitting beside him.

“It’s my book.  I don’t get every pitch down, but I put in what worked on each batter.  And what didn’t.  I got to get to know these guys, Mr. Monkey.”

Tran looked at him, wide-eyed.  “You are pretty damn cool,” he said.

The Marlins’ moose on the mound was named Carl Crowther, Jr.; his parents called him “Little Carl,” but everyone else called him “Little Corn,” and sometimes “Crowther” became “Chowder.”  His father, Carl, Sr., or “Big Carl” was a much larger moose.  He was sometimes called “Clam,” or “The Big Clam.”  The Big Clam was the Marlins’ coach.

Little Corn could throw as hard as David Slaughter, and for the first three innings he had much better control.  As a result, at the end of the third the score was three-zip.  Carlton had been up once and had hit the ball hard but right to the center fielder.  David Slaughter had singled.  Aside from Damian in the first, no other Brave had touched the ball:  seven strikeouts.  Meanwhile the Marlins had scratched out their three runs on three walks, a wild pitch, two singles, and an error.  The error was on Mouse at third.  Carlton was glad it wasn’t Damian’s; he suspected any screw-up would make life tougher at home.

Then in the top of the fourth, two things happened.  First, Tran, John Wilson, and Nelson Morales replaced Jason Allen at second, Doug Duncan in right, and Phil Thibodeau.  The game had reached the halfway point, and the other players had to have their three innings.  Second, and more important, out on the mound Little Corn in the blink of an eye simply lost his stuff.

The Braves were amazed at the totality of his collapse.  Tran led off.  With cries of, “Go, you Monkey King” – at which Tran dropped his bat and scratched under his armpits before stepping in – he walked on four pitches.  Carlton wasn’t that surprised, for when Tran crouched down in his batting stance, he reduced his strike zone to the size of a teacup.

“You know,” said Coach Smith when Tran was standing on first, “a long time ago the Cleveland Indians sent a midget to the plate – a very little guy named Eddie Gaedel – and he walked on four pitches, too.”

Carlton was next in the lineup.  After looking his bat up and down, he stepped carefully into the batter’s box.  The first pitch bounced in the dirt all the way to the backstop, and Tran scampered down to second.  As Little Corn tried to get more careful and hit the strike zone, he put one right down the pipe; Carlton hit it to the wall in left center:  a double, scoring Tran.  The Braves went nuts.

“God damn!” shouted the Big Clam from the Marlin dugout.  “Pull it together, Little Carl!”

But Little Corn could not pull anything together, and by the end of the inning the Braves had scored four runs on two hits, four walks, and an error.  The Big Clam was noisily displeased, and another kid replaced Little Corn on the mound.

In the meantime, David Slaughter had grown stronger, and when they reached the bottom of the sixth inning – the last – the score was still 4-3.  The first Marlin worked the count nicely, and walked.  Carlton had pegged the kid as a speedster and so was not surprised when the next batter squared and bunted down the third base line.  “One-one-one!” Carlton called when Mouse fielded it, and the play went to first.  One out, a runner on second.

The next batter grounded to short, but Damian scuffled it, and suddenly there were runners on first and third, still one out.  Carlton called time, went out to the mound, pulled the infielders in, Damian hanging his head.

“Okay,” he said.  “Heads up, everyone.  This kid might bunt, too.  Damian, don’t forget.  The Zipper.”

They all smacked their gloves and returned to their positions.  Sure enough, the new batter squared and put the ball down right in front of the plate.  Carlton hopped on it and threw a bee to Damian at short, who threw it right back.  And sure enough, the third base runner, speedy as he was, seeing the ball go out toward second, came flying home, where Carlton was waiting for him, the ball in his mitt.  “Crap,” said the runner.  “Out!” said the umpire.

Meanwhile, the Marlin that had reached second, seeing the play to the plate, decided to try for third.  Carlton gunned the ball to Mouse, who tagged a sliding foot – “Out!” cried the ump once more – and the game was over.

Chapter 23

The Woodrow Wilson Middle School Band couldn’t march, but the members could stand up straight, keep time, and stay in tune.  Carlton thought they were pretty impressive as they hammered out “The Star Spangled Banner,” and he sang, audibly but not particularly tunefully, along with them.

He and all the rest of the Hollis Little League were assembled at the Jeff Reardon Park.  Jeff Reardon was a former Red Sox relief pitcher, one who had had some tenuous connections with Hollis back in the day.  His painted portrait hung from a signpost at the side of the road, inviting fans and players into the parking lot.  Sited a distance from town along a country road, the complex was new, barely five years old, and handsome: a field with four towers of lights, home plate set in one corner framed by tall chain-link fences that separated the left foul area from the parking lot and the right one from some woods.  A high backstop stood behind the plate.  The dugouts – aboveground sheds, really, nothing really dug out about them – were placed between the foul lines and the fences, and beyond them on both sides were rows of bleachers.  A four-foot fence demarcated the outfield in a perfect arc; blue banners advertising local businesses were fastened along it.  Carlton flushed happily when he saw the Java Jive sign out in center field, not far from where he was standing.  “Featuring Carlton’s Pies!” it read in script.

“And the home – of the – brave!” sang everyone except Carlton’s team, which bellowed, “– of the – BRAVES!”

Then a black-cassocked priest named Father Poulin stepped to the microphone that was standing at home plate.  “Heavenly Father, bless us we pray as we assemble here to begin the fiftieth season of this wonderful program.  Bless the infielders and the outfielders, the pitchers and the catchers, the coaches and the managers, and all the Hollis Little League families.  We thank You for the last fifty years of Little League baseball, and we ask that You bless us for the next fifty.  We ask all this in Jesus’ name.  Amen.”

And all the assembled, even the Jews and the Khmers, echoed, “Amen.”

It was a great day, Carlton thought, warm, full of sunshine and blue sky.  Tran stood beside him, a toothy grin stretched across his face.  “Your parents here?” Carlton asked.

“Sure.  Mai, too.  They all like this a lot.  Baseball’s very American.”

“Ayup.  Finest kind, Monkey King.”  And he watched Tran’s smile grow impossibly wider.

They were all in their uniforms, caps and white pants and blue buttoned shirts with B-R on the right side and A-V-E-S on the left, stitched in red script, the two sides matching so perfectly that the name seemed seamless.  Underneath the left side of the name was the trademark red tomahawk.

A number of dignitaries followed Father Poulin to the microphone, the mayor included, and as they droned on, Carlton drifted away.  He thought of his father, wishing he could have seen this day.  He looked at his uncle Peter standing in front of the team and wearing his Braves cap, and then at the crowd, eventually picking out Aster.  Then Tran poked him.  “Hey.  Look.  Coach.”

Sure enough Coach LaBonté was being brought forward by the president of the Hollis Little League Association.  “The Coach of the Year Award is being given this year to Dr. Dennis LaBonté, whose Braves team last year won the town championship.  He has been coaching in Hollis Little League for the last five years, and this is his second championship.  This year we are pleased to present Dennis with this commemorative plaque.”

The coach was as stone-faced as ever.  His thanks were brief, terse even, and he marched the plaque back to stand ramrod straight in front of the Braves.

“Look at Damian,” whispered Tran.

Carlton turned and saw he was right.  Two Braves over, a mask had slipped from Damian’s face – which had suddenly filled with anger, maybe even hatred.  Carlton had never seen an expression like it.  Then it went away, and Damian’s normal placid demeanor returned.  “Sweet baby Jesus,” he muttered.

“You got that right,” said the Monkey King.

The ceremonies went on and on, until the band struck up “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” and everyone joined in.  Then the teams broke apart, and Carlton and Tran went to the stands to find their families and to introduce them to each other.  The Tarbells moved over to where the Tranhs were sitting, and Carlton smiled at Mai.

The Tranhs had some English – not a full dictionary – and their children helped them over the linguistic humps.  Both sets of adults were aware of how much each boy had helped the other.  “We want to come eat at your restaurant,” said Mr. Tranh.

“Thank you so much,” said Aster.  “We’d be pleased to see you there.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Tranh.  “We hear about Carlton’s pie.”

Then Carlton looked up to see Mrs. LaBonté moving toward them.  She was wearing sunglasses, a scarf over her blonde hair, and a long-sleeved blouse and cardigan.  Despite all the visual camouflage, Carlton was still pretty much knocked breathless.  With an effort he pulled himself together.

“Hi, Mrs. LaBonté.  This is my aunt and uncle, Aster and Peter Tarbell.  And this is the Tranhs, Tran’s mom and dad and sister Mai.  This is Mrs. Coach, uh, Mrs. LaBonté.”

“Hello,” she said in her high babyish voice.  “We are so happy to have your boys on our team.”  Carlton thought she looked like an old picture he had seen once of Marilyn Monroe.

Not much more got said, and then she walked away, swaying.  “Goodness,” murmured Aster.  “Quite a dish,” muttered Peter.  And the Tranhs said nothing, only smiled.

Then Aster’s face went grim.  “And why all those clothes on this beautiful day?” she asked quietly.  “And why the makeup on her neck?”

Carlton hadn’t noticed any makeup.  Both boys looked at her quizzically, but she said nothing more.

Carlton and Tran were sitting at a picnic table beside the Snack Shack, a wooden frame structure with a big wooden shutter that was raised and lowered by a pulley.  From inside, Little League parents sold soft drinks, Popsicles, candy bars, and hot dogs.  Both boys had Cokes and hot dogs as they looked out onto the field, where a couple of teams were playing.  The Snack Shack was set beyond the outfield fence.  The Braves were scheduled to play their season opener at seven o’clock that evening, so for now the two boys were hanging out to scout the opposition.  The rest of their families had left, promising to return in time for their sons’ action.

A loud Ting! from a metal bat made them look up to see a ball arcing through the air and landing not far away with a soft thud.

“Hey!” said Tran.  “A homer.  Who hit it?”

Out on the field a player was rounding second and heading onward.  Carlton didn’t know who he was, but then he didn’t know many of the boys.  “Nice dinger,” he said and stood up.  “We’ll look out for that guy.”

“Say, men,” said a voice filled with gravel, and an older man sat down across from them holding a hot dog and a cup of coffee:  gray hair, long sparse moustache, overalls and work boots, dirty Spinners cap, bright red nose.

“Hey,” said Tran.  “I’m Tran, the Monkey King.  This is Carlton.  Who are you?”

He smiled at them, showing some unhealthy teeth.  “Bill Russell.  No relation to the Celtic Bill Russell, but you probably guessed that.  I work for the town.  Out here at the field sometimes, and I like to watch the games.  The Braves going to repeat this year?”

“We’ll try,” said Carlton.

“Nice field, ain’t it?” said Bill Russell.  “I worked out here when it was the dump.”

They both looked up.  “This was the dump?” asked Carlton.

“Sure.  Seven years ago the town decided to close the landfill and turn it into a ballfield.  I worked on that, too.  They put a thick cap of clay on top of it and built the field.  Works good.  But sometimes, on hot wet days you can still smell it.”

“Wow,” said Tran, and they thought about all that garbage under their feet.  The grass looked lush and green, and Carlton decided not to sniff too deeply.  Then there was another loud Ting! and they saw another homer flying out.

“Oops,” said Carlton.  “Maybe it’s not the hitter.  Maybe we should figure out who’s pitching.”

Somebody’s little brother picked up the ball and ran it back to hand to a kid at the end of the bench.

“Are you from around here, Bill Russell?” asked Tran.

Bill Russell blew out his moustache.  “You bet.  I was a kid out here.  There’s a neat swamp across the road.  Used to whomp frogs out there.”

Carlton’s jaw dropped.  “Huh?  What’s that?”

The moustache blew out again  “Oh.  You take a stick, sneak up behind a frog, and whomp him.  Then you can catch him, easy.”

“But don’t you kill the frog?”

The gray head shook.  “Nope.  The point is to whomp him, not kill him.  It’s an art.”

“Oh.”

They were silent for a minute as Carlton pictured what frog-whomping might look like, and then Bill Russell added, “Some of the guys used to play frog baseball.  I always thought that was going too far.”  He looked thoughtfully across the parking lot and the road beyond.

Chapter 20

Now that the Great Pastime was starting to grow warm even in New England, Carlton talked often to Meredith, at least twice a week, usually more.  Up in Wiscasset she had been drafted early, by Diddler Merriman, in fact:  “He must of paid attention to you,” she said.  “My father couldn’t believe it.  He said he thought he’d have to volunteer to coach for him.”

“Oh, come on,” said Carlton, and she laughed.

“Phooey.  He was kidding.  He knows I’m amazing.”

They both laughed, and he felt a stab, missing her yet again.

“So how’s your team?” he asked.

“Not bad.  Billy Stevens is on it, too.  He’s a good kid.”

He told her about the Braves.  Of course, she knew Damian and Tran already.  “There’s this one kid, a pitcher, tall, built.  Twelve years old, but he looks about twenty.  He’s supposed to be the ace.  I’ve caught him a couple times.  He’s got a burner.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ayup.  Sometimes maybe a little wild.”

“Makes you work, huh?”

“Sometimes.  And he carries his nose pretty high in the air.”

During the period before the season began, the Braves practiced three times a week:  Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.  On the weekdays they went from three-thirty to five-thirty, so Carlton didn’t work those afternoons, though he did get up most mornings to bake his pies.  Peter was able to leave the Java Jive closing duties to Aster.

On one of the Thursdays they played a one-pitch game, with Coach LaBonté pitching, Coach Smith catching, and Coach Tarbell playing right field, the kids rotating through the positions.  The team was split, six against six, and each batter got only one pitch, generally a pretty fat one, hit it or you’re out.  Otherwise it was like regular baseball, played in fast forward.  The game went like lightning – batters trotting to the plate, swinging at everything, lots of hits and lots of runs.  The boys loved it.  They played nine innings; the final score was 27-22.  Carlton went eight-for-ten, with two doubles.

Afterwards Damian LaBonté came up to him.  “You wanna come over to our house for dinner?  I asked my stepmom and she said, sure, if it’s okay with your family.”

Carlton nodded, smiling.  “Hey, thanks.  Let me ask Uncle Pete.”

So after practice they loaded up the bats, balls, and other gear into the LaBonté SUV, a shiny black Lincoln Navigator.  It still smelled new.  “Wow,” said Carlton as they rode in the back.  “Pretty slick vehicle.”

“Yeah,” muttered Damian.

“My dad was a mechanic for a Honda dealer.  This is a lot slicker than a new Honda.”  Carlton felt pretty chatty.

Then they turned down a cul-de-sac and pulled into the driveway of a huge house, and Carlton shut up.  It, like the Lincoln, seemed new, side shingles stained gray, the lawn neatly sodded, several small trees staked out front.  The drive went up to a three-car garage attached to one end of the house.  As they got out, Carlton saw the netting of a batting cage beside the garage; inside it was a home plate, a raised mound with a rubber, and to the side, underneath a tarp, a portable pitching machine.

“Hey.  Wow.  You guys don’t really need the Tenth Inning, do you?”

Damian looked sheepish.  “Well, the Tenth is good in the winter.  And they got programs, competitions.”

They went to a door on other side of the garage and entered a slate-tiled mudroom.  “Here,” said Damian.  “Take off your shoes and come on in.”

Carlton liked Damian.  He never seemed sharp or mean, and he was a pretty good pitcher.  Carlton had once asked Tran about him:  “Nice guy, not all that swift.”  Privately Carlton felt this answer told him more about Tran than about Damian, but he kept his counsel.

Then they walked into the kitchen, and Carlton once again blinked.  As Mrs. LaBonté turned from the stove, he saw her face, oval and pink and lovely, framed by long blonde hair above a white apron and a green floral print dress trimmed with some kind of embroidered ribbon at the hem and collar.  Carlton thought of the heroine of a fairy tale, no wicked stepmother here, but a Cinderella or, considering the hair, a Rapunzel.

“So you’re Carlton,” she said, her smile white, in fact blinding.  Her voice was high, almost babyish, and as Carlton stepped toward her, he realized that she was shorter than he was, shorter even than Meredith, though her size in no way diminished the power of her beauty.  Carlton took a breath and found his voice.

“How’d you do?” he managed, and held his hand out to her.

“Dennis and the boys have talked a lot about you.”  She took the hand as if accepting a gift.

Carlton looked around a bit wildly.  “This is a cool kitchen.”

The room was wide and long, not particularly high-ceilinged, lots of stainless steel, polished granite counters, a slate tiled floor, an island in the center with a range and oven.  Behind it was a pair of sinks, beyond which a picture window looked out onto backyard and swimming pool and woods light green with April leaves.  A large covered enameled pot was steaming gently on a burner.  The odor of red sauce was heavy in the air.

She laughed, a tinkle of amusement.   “And do you like kitchens, Carlton?”

“Hey, Allie,” said Damian.  “Carlton is a cook.”

“Oh, dear.  Really?”

“He bakes the pies at his uncle’s restaurant.”

“Uh, oh.”  Her smile fell.  “Well, don’t judge me.  Okay?”

She looked so worried that Carlton put up his hands.  “Thanks for asking me, Mrs. LaBonté.”

He and Damian went upstairs to Damian’s room, where they turned on his TV set and PlayStation, and Carlton tried out MLB 98.  No expert on the PlayStation controller, he was happy to watch Damian run the Red Sox against the Yankees.  They were halfway through the sixth inning when the call for dinner came.

“Hey, Carlton,” Troy called out as they entered the dining room.

Carlton gave him five as he walked around to his seat.  The table was long, covered with a white tablecloth, around which was set silver, cloth napkins, and water goblets, a chandelier of cut glass hanging overhead.  The plates were stacked at one end.  The parents sat at each end, Mrs. LaBonté in front of the china, Carlton and Damian across from Troy.  The coach sat down at the other end, silent, chin blue-black with that perpetual five o’clock shadow.  He looked like an undersized Jafar from Aladdin, thought Carlton.

Mrs. LaBonté – not Allie to Carlton, no way – passed around plates of spaghetti.  A basket of garlic bread and a wooden bowl of salad followed.  The coach folded his hands and lowered his head.  “Bless this food, oh Lord, and bless us to thy service, in Jesus’s name, Amen.”

The rest of the family, heads bowed, crossed themselves and said, “Amen,” and Carlton gave a muttered echo, “Amen.”

There was silence for a space, and then Coach spoke in that harsh voice:  “So what did you fellows do today, Troy?”

“Ah, not much.  I threw some infield practice, did some drills covering first.  We ran the bases.”

“How do you feel?”

“Good, good.”

Carlton watched them all carefully.  When the coach spoke, he did not look at Troy or at any of the others, only at his plate.  He might have been counting the strands of spaghetti.  Yet it was clear he was listening intently, and not just to the words.  This demeanor was different from the way he behaved on the field, where his eyes were always moving, his mouth animated, his hands in furious motion as he explained something.  Here with his family he seemed inert, morose maybe, yet always still somehow intense.

“How do you feel, Damian?”

Carlton could feel wariness beside him.

“Good.”

“You had a hard day in the field today.”  Damian had missed a fly that went over his head in the outfield, and had muffed a couple of grounders while rotating through the infield.

He spoke to his spaghetti.  “Yeah.”

Finally the coach looked up at Carlton.  “You hit well today.”

He smiled faintly.  “Well, Coach, you were throwing them pretty fat out there.”

The blue eyes came back at him.  “For a while.  But the last couple of times I tried to put some juice on it.  And those were your two doubles.”

“Huh.”  Carlton had guessed that the heat was coming at the end and had been ready for it; all game he had hit every ball thrown to him.  Two had been caught for his two outs, and one was in the dirt, but that one he had chopped in front of the plate and had beaten out.

“Good work.”

The compliment made him uncomfortable.  “Hey,” he said to Damian.  “You smacked a beauty.  Bounced over the fence.”

Damian laughed.  “I was glad it was your uncle out there in right field.  Dave Slaughter would of tracked it down.”

The rest of the dinner went well enough, lots of baseball talk among the boys.  As they were getting up, Carlton realized that Mrs. LaBonté had not said a single word during the entire meal.

“That was really good, Mrs. LaBonté,” he said.  “You don’t have to worry any about my cooking.”

She turned that glorious smile on him.  “It was a pleasure, Carlton.”

Peter drove over to pick him up.  “How was it?  Looked pretty fancy in there.”

Carlton replied seriously.  “I’m glad I’m your nephew, Uncle Pete.”

Chapter 19

BRAVES ROSTER

No.  Name                             Pos.                 Bat, Throw     Age

22     Nathan Smith                  CF                    BR, TR             11

6      Joey Pelletier                 OF, 1B               BR, TR             11

15     Damian LaBonté               SS, P                BR, TR             11

10     Mickey Morrison               3B, P, C             BR, TR             12

16     Philip Thibodeau                 OF                   BR, TR             10

9      David Slaughter                SS, P                BR, TR             12

5      Carlton Sortwell                C                      BR, TR             10

2      Jason Allen                       OF, 2B               BR, TR             11

1      Doug Duncan                     P, 1B                BL, TL              12

29     John Wilson                        OF                    BR, TR             10

45     Tran Tranh                          2B, OF              BR, TR             10

14     Nelson Morales                    IF, OF               BL, TR              10

*  *  *

There were actually two elementary schools in Hollis:  Tsongas, the newer one, named after the late senator from Lowell, and Fillmore, the older, named after the most boring president in American history.  At least that’s what the residents of Hollis always said.  Furthermore, this year the twelve-year-olds had moved up to Woodrow Wilson Middle School.  So most of the Braves were completely unfamiliar to Carlton.  In fact he knew only Damian and Tran and two other of the new ten-year-olds, the ones in his class at Tsongas.  He didn’t care.  This was baseball, for Nomar’s sake.

So on the morning of Saturday, April 3, the 1999 Braves gathered outside Fillmore Elementary, all twelve of them.  Peter Tarbell was there, too.  The day was cool, breezy, but sunny.  As they left Aster at the restaurant, Peter had said to Carlton, “You know, I don’t have a glove.  Think I’ll need one?”

“Got you covered,” he said.  When they got to the car, he unzipped his bag of gear and pulled out a fielder’s glove.

Peter looked at it: brown leather, well worked, large – a man’s glove.  In a flash of intuition he said, “This was Wallace’s.  Wasn’t it.”

Carlton gave him a faint smile.

“I’ll treat it like treasure.”

“It’s okay,” Carlton had said.  “Just have some fun with it.”

Now along with Peter at the field was another dad/coach named Modest Smith, father of Nathan.  Modest, like Peter, had been recruited last year to assure his son’s presence on the Braves’ roster.  Nathan, now eleven, was very fast, a natural center fielder and a solid hitter.  Modest, unlike Peter, actually knew a lot about baseball and had played in college; he and Dennis LaBonté formed the team’s Brain Trust.

The snow was mostly melted away, except for some plow piles in the parking lot.  A baseball field was laid out beside the school, but today the infield was soft and muddy, so the team gathered on the outfield, which spread out into a soccer pitch.  Boys were arriving, shouting with excitement like seagulls at the dump:

“Hey, Joey!  How was Doyles’?”

“Look!  Check out the Mouse’s new glove!”

“Joey went to Doyles’ baseball camp in Florida.   Come on.  You meet anybody famous?”

“Hey, Mouse!  You been doing AAU?  What’s it like?”

“Hey, Carlton!”  Both Tran and Damian came up to him.  “Whadaya think?  Pretty cool, huh?”

“Hey, Tran,” said Carlton.  “You made it, after all.”

“Yeah.  And with the Braves.  Wow!”

“ ‘Sup, Carlton?” asked Damian.

“Hey,” said Carlton.

“Hey, Damian.  Who’s this guy?”  It was a big Brave asking.

“This guy” was, of course, Carlton, who had his bag of catching gear slung over his shoulder.  Damian introduced him:  “Carlton Sortwell.  This is Dave Slaughter.  He’s our ace.  Carlton’s the new catcher.  Moved down this winter from Maine.  He’s okay.”

Carlton checked the kid over.  He was definitely big, maybe five eleven, not only tall but wide-shouldered, too.  He could have been a linebacker.  He looked about fourteen:  short brown hair, upper lip cut by a scar, eyes like chips of gray ice.

Dave Slaughter looked at Carlton without much enthusiasm.  “You any good?”

Damian said,  “He’s been catching me and Troy at Tenth Inning.  Troy likes him.  He’s good.”

“Well,” said Dave Slaughter.  “We’ll see.”

Carlton looked at him square on and put some Maine in his voice.  “How ‘bout you?  You any good?”

Dave Slaughter grinned, with crispy January warmth.  “We’ll see.”

“All in,” yelled Coach LaBonté, and instantly the boys were standing in front of him, looking up.  Peter and Modest flanked him, each holding a clipboard.

“Okay.  It’s still cold, and most of you haven’t had a baseball in your hand since last summer.  So we’re going to begin with throwing – soft throwing – to warm you up.  If you start right out throwing ninety, you’ll blow out your arm for a month.  So don’t do it.  Pick a partner, get fifteen feet apart, and start throwing.  Focus on the ball.  No hard throws, no dropped balls.”  He passed out balls from a big plastic bucket.

And they were off, like terriers.  The old kids knew the drill; the new ones knew they had to show they knew it too.  Carlton threw with Damian.  Eventually they formed two lines facing each other, and the balls would travel up the line: catch it, throw it to the next guy across, catch the next ball from the last guy, throw it to the next guy, the balls coming quicker and quicker, no misses, the last guy tossing to a coach with a bucket.  If you didn’t pay attention, you could get hit in the face.  When the bucket was full, the coach would start the balls coming back the other way down the line.

As practice continued, Carlton was alive with joy.  They mostly kept the balls off the ground, which was a bit damp.  Two coaches hit fungoes in the air, with Carlton and Mouse Morrison taking the relays from a cut-off man, and Peter (whose fungo abilities were suspect) backing up any wild throws.  When the coaches hit the fungoes, the balls would rise and rise, pause an instant, and start to drop.  This sight always made Carlton believe that if you hit a ball hard enough, it would never come down.

Riding back in the Windstar, Carlton was, for him, ebullient.  “Boy, all that feels good.  We’re pretty young, but we got some pitching, and maybe some hitting.  I think we’ll be strong up the middle.”

“What’s that mean?” asked his uncle.

Carlton’s voice was unhurried, almost patient.  “The positions in the middle of the field.  Center fielder, shortstop, second base, pitchers.”

“And you?” Peter said with a smile.  “The catcher?”

“Ayup.  I’m in the middle, too.  And I’m strong.”  No brag, just stating a fact.  “Anyway, every good team needs to be strong up the middle.”

They parked behind the Java Jive.  “So.  What do you think of the coach?” asked Peter.

“Hey.  The Braves are defending champs.  He knows stuff.”

“Well, I don’t know jack.  You’ll have to explain things to me as we go along.”

Carlton looked up at him with a quick smile.  “Ahh – you’ll be good.  And you’ll have my back.”

“Huh.  Your back?  What for?”

“Oh, they’ll be something.”

An hour later the other four Brave ten-year-olds – Phil Thibodeau, John Wilson, Nelson Morales, and Tran – came piling into the restaurant.  “Hey, Carlton!” said Tran.  “I told these guys they needed some of your pie!”

He served them all pie and milk.  Phil, a quiet, dark-haired boy, an outfielder, said, “This is really good, Carlton.  Tran told us you make these pies.”

“It’s true.”

“How’d you learn how?” asked Nelson.

“My best friend’s mother.  She taught me.”

They all put their heads down and ate.  Outside the sun kept shining and the breeze kept winging away.  Baseball had arrived, at last.