John Ringo: Princess of Wands

The two were dressed in light coats against the early spring cold and surrounded by similarly dressed parents, grandparents, friends and siblings of the players. The clothing of the group ranged from the designer labeled jackets and jeans of Barb and Cindy to oil-stained jackets labeled only with their owners’ names, but on the stands the parents were one group, united in the belief that only their girls were in the running for the Redwater County Spring Season trophy.

“Anything you do should be done to the best of your ability,” Barbara said, taking a deep breath to control her anger. “Allison knows better than that. She’s letting the pitcher spook her.”

“They’re winning,” Cindy said in exasperation.

“Only because Charlotte’s kept the Panthers from hitting,” Barb said, taking a breath again. “Don’t tense up, Allison! Just watch the ball and do the job!”

The blond teenager didn’t appear to notice her mother screaming at her from the stands. She waggled the softball bat then settled into position. The pitches were full-up and the pitcher chose to send a fast ball straight in over the base. Allison swung and… missed.

“Strike three!”

“Just what was that all about?” Coach Sherman shouted as the girls gathered in the dugout. “If Charlotte hadn’t struck out most of their batters, we’d have been looking at the tail end of the season! If you girls can’t do better than that I’ll get a team of FIFTH graders and win! There’s an additional practice scheduled for Saturday…”

“But, coach…” Sandy Adams started to protest.

“I don’t want to hear about it!” the coach shouted. “I don’t want to hear about dates or dances or any of the rest. Eight PM at the West Park field. Tell your parents we’ll be playing late and I don’t want them there. This is about playing ball, not making faces for your moms and dads! We are going to take the tournament this season or there will be Hell to pay! Do you girls understand me?”

“Wasn’t the spring dance scheduled for this Saturday?” Barbara asked as her dejected daughter got in the Expedition.

“It’s not fair ,” Allison complained. “I already had a date and everything…”

“Your batting really was bad,” Barb answered, tartly. “Were you thinking more about the dance than the game?”

“I don’t know,” Allison whined. “I just had a hard time concentrating. Mom, I don’t want to play anymore. I don’t like Coach Sherman. He’s not like Coach Foss.”

“Maybe that’s good,” Barbara said, finally getting out of the traffic of the parking lot and onto the one-lane access road. Despite the double line she passed a turtle-slow minivan ahead of her, whipping in and out of the lanes with the Expedition rocking on its springs. “Coach Foss was a very nice man, but he didn’t have the sort of winning record of Coach Sherman. We’re lucky he moved up here.”

“Have you ever talked to Coach Sherman?” Allison asked.

“Not directly,” Barb admitted. “Why?”

“He’s… weird,” Allison said, pouting. “He makes me feel creepy.”

Barbara paused for a moment at that. Sexual predators came in all sorts of guises, but positions of relative power and influence, like coaches, were one that all parents had to keep an eye on. The flip side was that Allison was more than capable of using her mother’s rather strong protective streak to get out of something she wasn’t enjoying anymore. And since she’d steadfastly refused to take martial arts this year, she only had cheerleading and gym besides softball to keep her in shape.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Barb said. “And I’ll admit that it makes the practice this Saturday questionable. But you’re going anyway. Since there are questions, you know the drill.”

“Don’t be alone with the adult,” Allison said, sighing. “If they ask for a private meeting, insist that another girl or adult female be there. File any questionable action or statement and report it afterwards.”

“And everything should be fine,” Barbara said, trying not to keep the worry out of her tone. Lately she’d gotten a crash course in how unfine things could be.

Barb, as usual, picked up her daughter from the late practice. Allison seemed to have enjoyed it since she was smiling as she walked to the SUV.

The practice field was on the edge of Hernando State Forest on some land that the county had purchased from the state government to make a local park. Most of the county park was woodland with trails cut through it and a small lake. It was an out-of-the-way park, built in anticipation of continued growth and thus the practice field was almost always available.

“How was practice?” Barbara asked as the fourteen-year-old got in the van.

“Interesting,” Allison said, distantly. “Mostly it was about mental conditioning and focus. We hardly swung a bat.”

“Oh,” Barb said, frowning. Mental conditioning was all well and good, but it could have been done anywhere; it didn’t have to be in this out-of-the-way place.

“I was wrong about Coach Sherman, Mom,” Allison said as if reading her mom’s mind. “He’s pretty interesting. He’s got a different way of looking at things. I understand, now, why his teams won so much.”

“Okay,” Barbara replied, still frowning. Allison had been extremely changeable since she hit puberty, but rarely this fast. Barb had nearly had to pull her out of the house kicking and screaming. Two hours had made a pretty big change.

“Mark?” Barbara said as they were preparing for bed. Mark had spent most of the evening on the couch watching ESPN and she had the unChristian thought that her husband could do with a bit of dieting and exercise rather than munching chips in front of the games.

“Uh?” Mark replied, sitting down on the bed and pulling his shirt off to drop on the floor.

“What did you say about Coach Sherman?” Barb asked, rubbing lip gloss on to keep her lips from chapping overnight. She also hoped Mark would take the hint for a change. Lately the “magic,” a nice euphemism for sex, had started to fade from the marriage. She wasn’t sure if it was something she was doing or if Mark was just falling off with age. But it was simple fact that they’d slowed down from just about every night to no more than once a week.

“Allison’s coach?” Mark asked, tossing the rest of his clothes, excepting underwear, on the pile. “Bob Ruckert said he’d been the big thing down around Mobile. His teams got the county championship three or four years running and even took state one time.”

“So why’d he move?” Barbara asked, lying back on the pillow and arranging her hair fetchingly.

“I dunno,” Mark said, crawling in bed and settling in. “Got a new job? They don’t work for their coaching pay, you know.”

“I guess that’s it,” Barb said, rolling over to look at her husband and leaning up on one elbow so her breasts created a very nice view of cleavage under her low-cut nightgown. “Mark?”

“Hmm?”

“Does this make you think of anything?” Barbara asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mark rolled over and looked at her for a moment and clearly reconsidered his plans for the rest of the night. On the other hand, Barb could see the struggle on his face.

“I guess not,” Barbara said, lying back and crossing her hands on her stomach.

“Honey, you look great…” Mark said, rolling back over. “But I’m really tired.”

“I understand,” Barb said, calmly. “Good night, dear.”

“Good night.”