Rounding Third (4 page)

The next inning added three more runs and Belleville pulled
their starter, but by then the damage was done. Josh finished the game, his
tired arm giving up two walks which led to two runs in the seventh and final
inning. Josh had his first complete game and his first win as a Hawk. The team
crowded around to congratulate him as much for sparking the rally as for his
throwing a five-hitter, but Josh moved past them, looking for Bobby who was
shoving the bats back into their bags. Bobby looked up, surprised to see Josh
coming toward him.

Josh announced to the team, “Here’s the guy
who should really get the victory. Great job, Rob.” The rest of the team looked
confused. Perhaps they didn’t know who
Rob
was. He wasn’t sure how many
of the guys knew what his last name was, let alone his first name and if they
were aware of him before this, it was as Bobby. Josh slapped Bobby on the back
again. “My first win, but the credit’s all yours.”

Bobby was as surprised by his getting all
this attention as the rest of the team was. Josh turned to his teammates and
told them that it was Bobby who had spotted the flaw in the other pitcher. This
bit of trivia was quickly shrugged off, dismissed by the players as they went
back to congratulating Josh. Josh, ignoring their accolades, hollered back at
Bobby as he was getting swept away by the crowd, “I owe you one!”

In the locker room, Bobby was stuffing his
uniform into his backpack when he felt a hand on his bare shoulder. “Thanks
again. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Recognizing the slight whistle in the subtle
lisp, Bobby didn’t have to turn to know Josh was at his side. “You’re welcome,”
Bobby said, but didn’t turn, and continued stuffing.

“Are you mad at me? I’m sorry, I should’ve
made it clear to those guys that was all your doing.”

“No, I’m not mad. You tried. They didn’t
care. But you don’t have to keep thanking me. They think it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird to give credit
where it’s due. You won that game more than any pitch I threw or ball that was
hit.”

“The team won, that’s all that matters.”
Bobby still wouldn’t make eye contact.

“Thanks again. With your head for baseball
and my pitching arm we make a good team.” Josh again slapped Bobby’s bare back
and walked away.

Bobby slipped his shirt on and turned to
leave, walking right into the landmass that was Buff Beechler. He seemed to
always be running into Buff, but since Buff took up half the locker room, that
wasn’t hard to do. Buff was at least two and a half times Bobby’s 110 pounds.
“Sorry,” Bobby mumbled as he tried to move around the large obstacle. Buff
grabbed his arm.

Here it comes, Bobby thought, I’ve bumped
into him once too often, and now he’ll pound me into the tile floor like Bobby
had watched Danny Taylor do to a kid after gym class one day. Bobby had lived
in fear that his time was coming and now it had.

“Hey,” Buff said, forcing Bobby to look up.
“That was a good catch today.”

“Good catch?” Bobby stammered. “I didn’t
play.”

“You know what I mean. Schlagel was right--you
were the MVP today. It’s nice to know when a fastball is coming, especially
when the guy throws heat the way Fujiyama does. He’s been clocked at over
ninety.” Bobby stood in slacked-jaw silence, unsure that Buff Beechler was
really carrying on a conversation with him. Bobby could say nothing even if
he’d had a clue what to say. Buff chucked him lightly on the shoulder. “Keep up
the good work. And if you have any hot tips on any of the other teams we face,
clue me in, ‘k?”

Bobby could only nod weakly as Buff eclipsed
him. Bobby tried to leave again, but this time found himself face to face with
Jason Farino. “Nice going, Wardell, make the rest of us look bad again!” Farino
poked him in the shoulder. Next to Bobby, Jason was the smallest kid on the team,
and was by far the worst baseball player, but even he had enough size to pound
Bobby and they both knew it. Bobby almost felt sorry for Jason that he was so
low that the only person he was able to lord it over was Bobby. Bobby thought
there should have been some bonding at the bottom, but Jason was too dumb to
notice that picking on Bobby would never be enough to get him accepted by the
rest of the team.

Bobby said nothing. Being the center of
attention wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He popped in his earbuds and darted
out the door to run home.

*                     
*                     
*                     
*                     
*
        

All day Saturday, Bobby and his father, and
at times his mother and sister, took advantage of the warm weather to work in
the fields his father jokingly called “the back forty.” It was more of a hobby
than work for his father. His father’s accounting business and his mom’s part
time work paid the family bills, but they also grew much of the family’s own food.
Although his father hadn’t gone hunting in a few years, venison used to provide
winter meat. Bobby had a feeling their living off the land had more to do with
some kind of tradition than economics, but he never asked. They weren’t rich or
poor. He didn’t have his own car, but then many kids his age didn’t either. And
he had never even thought to ask for one since he had no place to go.

Although they often spent full days in the
field, he and his father didn’t talk much. Bobby thought they should be having
some sort of meaningful dialogue when they spent these long days together, that
a male-bonding father-son thing should be happening. He tried to avoid his
father, but not any more than he avoided anyone else.

His parents weren’t terribly social and sometimes Bobby had
wondered if he got his lack of social skills from them. For someone who had
been raised in the town and ran a business there, his father didn’t seem very
much a part of the town. He was not an Elk or a Lion or a Kiwani. He belonged
to the Chamber of Commerce, but rarely went to meetings. Bobby got the feeling
that after Vietnam and four years away at Kent State where his father met his
mother, his father really didn’t feel much like going home, but having no place
else to go and his parents needing help with the farm he probably never
questioned his duty to return home. His father was like that. Quietly doing his
duty.

When Bobby was about nine, his dad had
erected the basketball hoop and paved a section of the driveway into a
half-court. The games were too one-sided and after a while it was clear the son
was not enjoying the sport and dad stopped challenging him to after-dinner
games. Now his dad played Meg or shot baskets alone. Bobby would sometimes
shoot a few baskets or play Meg one-on-one, but he made it a point to never
have a basketball in hand when his father was around. Dad’s coaching
embarrassed him since he couldn’t perform as he was supposed to.

The Wardell family really did have almost
forty acres. Part of the land was still in woods, and part was the large lawn
for the house, although in the tradition of a century ago: the lawn was at the
back and to one side, and the front of the house was almost on Route 303. They
grew nearly an acre of various crops--the section his mother called their
farmlette--corn, beans, tomatoes, and a large garden, plus several fruit trees
of various types--which provided lots of food for his mother to can come fall.
The excess produce they sold to Frank Greiner for his market. Eighty years ago,
Bobby’s great-grandfather had sold his produce through Frank’s father. Some
things never changed.

Bobby and his mother were working in the field when his father
came out to them. “WTW?” he asked. Bobby’s father had a habit of saying
something his commanding officer used to say in Vietnam,
Ready to roll?
but before Megan could properly pronounce her Rs she had adopted her father’s
expression, which had become so routine a family joke it had been shortened to
its abbreviation.

“Weady,” Mrs. Wardell answered then turned to her son. “Sure you
don’t want to come?”

“Nah, I’ll stay here and finish clearing these weeds.”

“Think of anything else we need?” his father asked him.

Bobby shook his head. He had no desire to go to the lawn and
garden center. He wanted to be alone for a bit to try to think of what he might
say to Josh at Monday’s game. Since Josh had tried to talk to him, he wanted to
be able to have something to say in return instead of staring blankly the way
he had when Buff had spoken to him.

As long as Bobby kept his body busy he could
think pleasant thoughts, but once the sun was down and the world got quiet, the
noise in his head started again and he would put himself through another
grueling workout until exhaustion overcame anxiety and he could sleep.

5

“Notice anything about this guy?” Bobby
turned to see Josh standing next to him just before the start of the next game.
Josh jerked his head towards the opposing pitcher.

    
“Like that his curve ball doesn’t curve?” Bobby answered. “You guys will shell
him out of there by the third inning.”

    
“Thanks,” Josh said as he started to walk away.

    
“Their second baseman and shortstop don’t talk to each other,” Bobby added.

    
Josh turned, smiled and nodded. 

Bobby couldn’t help but admire the way Josh
moved on the field. Every move seemed natural. Even when Bobby was doing the
right thing on the field--like getting a run in-- it seemed to turn out wrong.

With the mercy rule, it was over in five
innings. Final score: Hawks 14, Bears 0. The new line-up had Josh batting fifth
in recognition of his hitting in the first game. Josh had gone three-for-three
with two doubles, a single, and a walk. They trotted to the locker room to shower.
Although there were no assigned lockers, everyone always used the same one.
Josh’s was in the bank of lockers with the starters. Bobby’s was in another
bank with the other benchwarmers.

Hudson insisted they shower and change at the
gym. He thought there was something wrong about wearing their sweaty uniforms
home. Although there was grumbling about this, the rule wasn’t going to change
anytime soon. It was just a few more minutes of agony which Bobby found
pointless since he was going to run home and shower again anyway, but he went
through the motions with the briefest of rinses. He was never comfortable in
the shower and avoided eye contact more than usual. As he was stepping out of
the shower, Taylor stepped in his way. Bobby looked up to avoid the collision.
He tried not to look at Taylor, but now here they were. Taylor said, “What’re
you looking at, faggot?”

Bobby didn’t answer and tried to step around
the naked shortstop, still not meeting his eyes. Taylor shoved him the chest,
which caused him to stagger back. “I asked what you were staring at down there.
Looking at a real man’s equipment? What you might hope to have someday if you
grow up? Or do you want mine now?” he asked, grabbing his crotch and shaking
it.

Brickman and others laughed. Buff Beechler
pushed between Taylor and Bobby forcing both to step back. Buff’s body always
made Bobby do a double take--it looked as though Buff had forgotten to take off
a black sweater before entering the shower, but it was all Buff’s natural fur.
Buff looked down at Taylor and shook his head. Bobby used the interruption to
escape to his locker. He heard Buff mumble “pathetic.”

    
Bobby was barely off school grounds when he heard a car slow beside him.
Fearing it might be Taylor and Brickman, he quickened his pace. The horn honked
beside him. Bobby again sped up.

    
“Rob! Where you headed in such a hurry?”

    
The slight whistle in the
S
made Bobby stop and pull off his earphones.
“What?”

Bobby trotted over to the old Ford Focus
where Josh Schlagel sat smiling behind the wheel. “I asked where you were
running so fast.”

    
“Sorry, I had my music on.”

    
“Want a ride?”

    
“I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

“I won’t. I live out 303.”

“You know where I live?”

“Yeah, everybody uses your house and that
farm market as landmarks. Whenever I ask directions, I always get ‘Go past the
farm market and the Wardell house...’ Hop in.”

Josh
cleared some papers off the front seat as Bobby unslung his backpack and
climbed in, moving the Bucks sweatshirt off the seat.

 “You from Milwaukee?” Bobby asked,
eyeing the sweatshirt. “The clothes sort of give it away.”

“Do they?” Josh lifted his Brewer’s cap,
looked at it, smoothed his dark blond hair and replaced it on his head, this
time backwards. “My father got transferred to Cleveland last summer. He
commutes. Wanted us to have the small-town life.” Bobby looked questioningly at
Josh who continued, “He’s track supervisor for a railroad. They closed the
Milwaukee office and moved the few that got to keep their jobs.” They had
turned onto Harding Street and were driving by the office of Robert F. Wardell,
CPA. “Is that your father’s office?”