Mossy Creek Part 10

Killer squatted lower.

"Ball four."

Buck turned to me in the dugout. "Well, I swear," he whispered. "I wouldn't have believed we could get that to work if you hadn't told me."

I grinned. The team managed to put two runners on base before the first out hit the scoreboard. Boom Boom, our best hitter, was up next. I whispered instructions to her.

"What'd you tell her?" Buck asked.

"Secret girl stuff," I said.

The whole team was standing now in the dugout, fingers grasping the fence like woodp.e.c.k.e.rs hanging on to tree bark. The pitch came. Boom Boom hit the ball. It went over the right fielder's head and rolled to the fence. As Boom Boom rounded second, our two base runners crossed the plate. The ball came in to the Baronettes' rattled second baseman. Just as I had hoped, she threw the ball over the third baseman's head and Boom Boom crossed the plate at a placid jog.

In the dugout, everyone, except me and Homer, of course, jumped up and down. Even Buck. I burst out laughing.

We scored two more runs that inning.

The Lady Mustangs held steady for the next couple of innings before the Baronettes went ahead by a run, then we caught up. The score was now Baronettes 6, Lady Mustangs 6. Soon we were down to the last inning. As the home team, we had the last bat. All the Baronettes had to do was keep us from scoring, and the game would go into extra innings. Our team had been lucky, so far. If there were extra innings, our luck would probably run out.

The Lady Mustangs' first two batters popped out. Finally, our girl Slick hit a low line drive and made it to second.

Little Ida was next at bat.

"I'm The Rabbit, I'm The Rabbit," she chanted as she went to the plate. Following my instructions, she took her stance and squatted so low she looked like her nickname. All we needed was a hit or a mistake by the other team. As she crouched there, I could feel the tension. For not once-either in a practice session or any game-had Little Ida Walker actually hit the ball.

Even Homer seemed to be holding his breath.

Strike one. Strike two. Ida narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. The pitcher threw the ball a third time.

"Now, Rabbit, now!" I yelled.

For the first time all summer, Little Ida hit a ball. She slammed it. The ball dribbled straight down the right field line.

"Let it go foul!" the Bigelow coach yelled to his first baseman.

"Run, Bunny...uh...Furry...uh...Rabbit!" Buck screamed, swinging his arm in a circle toward first base.

Little Ida, too surprised to move, simply stood there.

"Run, Rabbit!" I cried. "Use your brain and your feet! Show them how fast you are!"

She launched herself toward first base like a turquoise whirlwind. The ball rolled to a stop about halfway from first plate-still in fair territory. The catcher and the first baseman darted toward it at the same time, tripped each other, and sat down hard in the dust cloud Little Ida made as she flew by them. Slick headed for third. The catcher scrambled to her feet and threw wild to the surprised pitcher, who flailed at the ball hopelessly. It bypa.s.sed her glove and rolled between the shortstop and the second baseman as if it had eyes. They collided over it.

"Run!" screamed Buck.

Slick raced toward home. The Barronette second baseman finally picked up the ball and threw it to the pitcher. When the dust settled, Ida was safe at first base.

And Slick had scored the winning run.

"Home team scores," the umpire called out. "That's the game."

Little Ida started to cry.

I rolled my chair to the field and grabbed her. "You did it, Rabbit. We won the game. You got the winning RBI."

"But I didn't get to run around the bases."

"Doesn't matter. You hit the ball. The Lady Mustangs scored. You're a hero."

The stands were screaming. The teams gave each other high fives. Then with Little Ida in my lap, the Lady Mustangs rolled my wheelchair around the diamond chanting "Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit!"

It was a miracle. Homer neighed with excitement.

"You did it," Hank said, grinning as he loped over and kissed me.

I shrugged. "I just used my brain."

"Well, use it some more. Come on." He wheeled me to the next ball field, where the adult teams were warming up. I stationed myself and my wheelchair in the dugout of the Mossy Creek Mustangs with a lap desk and a scorebook. I penciled in the line-ups and told myself this was as good as the day was going to get. I'd accomplished a lot. I could bear to watch my friends, my neighbors, and my husband play softball without me.

We take our softball seriously in Mossy Creek. Things got tense right away when three Bigelow Baron batters, including the first woman to hit, got on base. Hank's pitching was, to put it mildly, interesting. "Sort of looks like he's winding up to swat the back end of a cow," I heard one of our teammates say. Everyone chortled.

I chewed on the end of my pencil. The next Bigelow batter, the right fielder, a shapely blonde, picked up a bat and sauntered to the plate, setting off a chorus of wolf whistles. "That's Swee Purla's younger sister," someone said. "Interior decorator. Just like Swee. Mean as a snake in silk."

She hit a hard line drive that careened off Hank's foot toward Little Ida's dad Robert, the first baseman. Robert scooped it up and stepped on the base. Next, the Bigelow catcher popped up. Two outs, bases still loaded. I pushed a sweaty strand of hair away from my forehead as a Bigelow banker about the size of Rush Limbaugh popped a short fly over the head of our wiry shortstop, Nail Delgado. The Barons scored their first run. Their pitcher, a woman, hit a dinger over first, and a second run scored.

Out in center field, Sandy Crane chewed a wad of gum, squinted with deadly intent, and crept forward. Her determined look said, No dingers are getting past me. When Hank let the next pitch go, I knew we were lost. We all watched in dismay as the Bigelow batter slapped the ball over Sandy's head. The ball rolled all the way to the fence. The Barons' runner held at third. The next batter struck out. We were lucky to be only three runs behind.

That's where it stayed for four innings. Bigelow 3, Mossy Creek 0. League rules had set the game at an hour and twenty minutes time or seven innings unless the score was tied. Our team finally scored two runs in the fifth. The crowd behind our home-team dugout went wild. I could hear the Lady Mustangs screaming in excitement. Little Ida's voice carried across the other fans when she yelled, "Go, Coaches!"

But the crowd went silent when the Barons scored another run in the bottom of the fifth, putting us two runs behind. Nail Delgado went down with a pulled hamstring in the top of the sixth and Chief Royden-our catcher-got a phone call and had to leave the field. "Two fender benders out on West Mossy Creek Road," he said as he gathered his gear in the dugout. "Sorry. We're short-handed during the holidays. And I promised Mutt he could have the Fourth off."

Mutt ducked his head in grateful acknowledgement. He had a new girlfriend in the stands.

"Chief, I'll go," Sandy called. She wanted to be a full-fledged police officer in the worst way. "I can write up a ticket! I can make notes about the dents and the tire marks! I can take people's statements and yell at 'em for speedin'! Lemme go, Chief, uh, please?"

Amos Royden didn't bat an eye. "Only one little problem. You're not a police officer. It would be illegal."

"Picky, picky, Chief."

He shook his head in amazement and left.

We were out of subst.i.tutes and almost out of time. Tension gripped the field like a tightly clenched fist. Olympic tryouts couldn't have been more serious. In the bottom of the seventh, we were still two runs behind. Sandy, our first batter, hit a grounder that bounced over the shortstop's head. Hank managed to get to first on a well-hit ball to right. When Regina Regina, our double-deck-named c.o.c.ktail waitress over at O'Day's Pub, popped up, things looked grim. Then we got a break; the Bigelow pitcher walked Mutt, the next batter.

One out and the bases loaded; we still had a chance. Behind me, in the silence, I heard a low murmur. Buck Looney, our most dependable homerun hitter, was up. The crowd's applause rose and took on a cadence. Buck glanced toward the stands, c.o.c.ked his head for a moment, then nodded. "Casey," he snapped, "Get a bat. You're up." He turned to the umpire. "We're putting in Casey Blackshear for Buck Looney."

My mouth fell open. "Me?"

"You. Everybody on this team plays. It's one of my rules."

"But I'm not really on the team, Buck."

"Oh yes, you are. Once your name goes on the roster, you're official. Besides, your fans are calling for you."

The crowd noise grew louder. I could hear the Lady Mustangs. "We want Casey. We want Casey. We want Casey."

"Buck, don't be foolish. I'm a scorekeeper, not a player. I can't bat. I can't walk."

"I'm not asking you to walk, Casey. I'll push you out to the plate. You stand up and bat."

"I can't do it." He couldn't know how badly I wanted to stand up and swing a bat again. He couldn't feel the shaft of pain in my heart, or he wouldn't keep on asking. By this time, every eye in the park was fixed on me.

"Remember Mighty Casey," Little Ida called out.

"Yeah," I growled under my breath. "Mighty Casey struck out."

Hank walked down from first base. "Go for it, babe. You're a champion, remember?"

I looked up into my husband's adoring eyes and wanted to disappear. He's helped everyone back you into a corner, I told myself. Your parents and everybody else in Mossy Creek are watching. If you don't try, the Lady Mustangs will think you're a coward. But if you do get up there, you'll strike out and maybe cause us to lose the game.

The chant grew louder. "We want Casey. We want Casey."

I knew what I had to do. What I wanted was unimportant.

By refusing to try, I'd make myself a quitter before my Lady Mustang team. My team. When had it become my team? When Little Ida tripped over the base on the first day, that's when. Slowly, I rolled forward and picked up my bat. "Get my braces out of the van, Hank."

Hank gave the umpire the signal for time out.

The crowd hushed as he ran up the hill to the van.

The umpire moved over to the dugout to confer with Buck for a moment. "Batter Up!" he called out, resuming his place behind the Bigelow catcher.

I rolled my chair into the batter's circle and took a couple of practice swings.

The umpire reached out to help push my chair to the plate. I shook my head. I'd do it on my own, or I wouldn't do it. Studying the plate, I positioned my chair so that as I stood my feet would be in the right place. Hank made it back to the field with my braces and strapped them on. He loped out to first base and stood there on the plate, watching me urgently.

"How much time have I got, Ump?" I asked as I released my wheelchair's foot rests, leaned my bat against the side of the chair, and firmly set my feet on the ground.

"Three minutes," he answered.

I drew in a shaky breath and pushed myself up. There was a gasping sound, as if the crowd had inhaled at the same time. I made certain that my feet were balanced, then motioned for Buck to move my chair away. Casey Champion Blackshear lifted her bat one more time.

The chant picked up again, growing louder as all the fans joined in. From the expression on the pitcher's face, I knew he was worried. Not worried that I'd hit the ball-worried that he would hit me.

"Throw it in here, Pitch," I called out. "You're holding up the game."

He gave me a weak grin and threw a high, slow ball so far outside that he might have been trying to walk me.

I forced a grin in return. "Throw me a strike. You know I can't walk."

He took me up on the taunt. The next ball had a perfect arc, straight down the middle of the plate. I swung-hard. And missed. And fell. I sprawled across the plate like a side of barbecued ribs flopped on a plastic platter.

"Casey!" Hank started toward me from first base.

I gave him a look that froze him in his tracks. When they'd fitted me with the braces in the spinal center, I'd fallen-lots of times. They even taught me how to get up.

"Casey!" Little Ida called out. I could hear the tears in her voice. "You don't have to bat, Casey. We love you anyway."

I positioned my legs so my feet were pointed toes out, then reached for my bat. Marshaling every ounce of strength in my upper body, I clasped the bat and began to ratchet myself up, dragging my feet forward. Now I had to do something I'd never done in public-push myself erect without losing my balance and falling over in another humiliating display. Inch by inch, I moved the bat toward me and I straightened my body until I was standing.

The crowd roared.

I wiped my forehead on my sleeve and pulled my turquoise cap lower.

The pitcher threw the ball. I drew my bat back and swung. The bat connected with the ball with a clang like an old-fashioned dinner bell. I raised my gaze, hoping, praying. As if it were in slow motion, the ball rose and shot across the sky.

The crowd was on its feet, cheering. The ball seemed to hover for a moment, then fell-just inside the centerfield fence. I simply stood and watched. Then I heard the thunder of feet. Our three base runners had to touch home plate, and I was blocking it. I couldn't reach my chair and I couldn't walk.

I had to walk.

Like a mummy in a bad horror movie, I leaned on the bat and inched forward. Sandy reached the plate and danced around me. Mutt pranced across the plate next. Hank, not the fleetest-footed member of the team, was running like he was being chased by the hounds of h.e.l.l. He tried to miss me. I tried to get out of the way. Neither of us succeeded. It was a deja vu all over again.

With a crunch, I went down. Hank fell on top. I grabbed his hand and planted it squarely on home plate. The crowd went wild. The impossible had happened. Mossy Creek had defeated Bigelow twice in one tournament. A home run on an Olympic team wouldn't have been as sweet.

Hank rolled over, turning me with him. "Are you okay, babe?"

I looked down at him and smiled. I was fourteen and falling in love with him at first sight, again. "Oh, yes."

If I could coach and play on a softball team, I could get myself back to college and finish my degree in education. If I could teach Little Ida to play softball, I could teach other children. And maybe I could help Hank out in the clinic. And maybe. . .well, there were a lot of maybes. They'd just have to get in line.

That evening, as we sat on benches around the town square listening to the Mossy Creek band play It's a Grand Old Flag and watching fireworks, I leaned against my husband and knew that today's victory was more than just winning a game. It was a victory of the heart.

Mighty Casey didn't strike out.

The Mossy Creek Gazette 215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope Cornwall, England Dear Lady Victoria, All right, I admit it. We Mossy Creekites-past or present-are fools for love.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Isabella was pledged to marry old Lionel Bigelow. She began to suspect Lionel might be more interested in her Mossy Creek land-owning connections than her own sweet self. Her uncle, Joshua Hamilton, was suspicious of Lionel's plans, too, so he hired the finest land surveyor in the South-your great-great-great-great grandfather, Richard-to survey the land in Mossy Creek. Just in case there were any squabbles with Lionel Bigelow over the old land deeds.

Richard Atworth Stanhope-now if that's not a dashing Englishman's name, I don't know one that is! Legend has it that Richard wore a diamond collar pin. He'd barely settled into a room at the Hamilton House Inn before his collar pin was pilfered by Amarinth Hart Salter, a nutty aunt of Isabella's on the Salter side. Amarinth said she needed the collar pin to work a love spell on Isabella's behalf. n.o.body in the Hart or Salter families seemed at all embarra.s.sed when she was caught. They just returned the pin to Richard and promised it wouldn't happen again. He was gentlemanly enough to let the matter drop.

In the South we don't hide our odd relatives-we get them out and show them off. Mossy Creekites are natural show offs, but there's more to it than that. We believe the sweet truths of life can be found in the least likely places sometimes, hidden inside peculiar ways and wistful memories.

Relatives of Amarinth made news just last month in Mossy Creek. Of course, the real story is that Maggie Hart and her mother Millicent realized they were hiding the sweet truth of life from themselves and each other. As you're about to see, all it took was a natural force of nature to help them remember where they put their hearts.

Sentimentally, your friend, Katie