Stephen Dixon - Late Stories

He was first up the next inning. He wanted to impress her with a solid hit and his fast base running or if possible even a home run to tie the score. For sure, one of those his first time at the plate, before she and her friends got bored with the game, as girls will, and left, if they were allowed to, because if they were all C.I.T.’s, then they could be there to be near their campers. He knew you’re not supposed to swing at the first pitch, especially your first at-bat, but he was eager and the ball looked too good to pass up, coming in slow and fat, and he swung and hit it as far as he ever hit a softball, but it curved foul by about twenty feet.

“Straighten it out next time,” a couple of his teammates yelled. “You can do it.”

He swung at the next pitch, too — a bad one, way too low — and missed. Take it easy, he told himself. You’re much too eager. Last thing you want is to strike out in front of her. Even if she had seen him hit the first pitch that far, it went foul, so meant nothing.

He stepped out of the batter’s box to calm himself. The pitcher was about to throw the ball and stopped. And it was a real batter’s box, chalked like the on-deck circle was and the baselines all the way to the ends of the outfield. He also wanted to give her time to look at him looking pensive and determined.

“Come on, son,” the umpire said. “Get in position. You’re wasting time.”

Now that could be embarrassing, he thought, but he won’t say anything. He saluted the umpire, then thought what a stupid move, saluting, and got back in the box. Definitely let the next pitch go past if it looks like a ball. Trust your eyes. Wait for another good one. He swung at the next pitch — it would have been a strike if the umpire called it right — and grounded to the pitcher and was thrown out.

The girl stayed around. Cheered once when her side got another run. Or pretended to cheer, really. That’s what it looked like to him. Then she and the other girls cheered together “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Na-ho-je, Na-ho-je,” which was the name of their camp, “yea-a-a.”

The score was still two-zip in the fourth inning when two of the players on his team got on base with walks and he came to bat. “Knock it out of the park,” his teammates were shouting. “If anybody can do it, you can.”

“Don’t be anxious,” the waiter counselor had told him. “Wait him out. Maybe we can walk around. Or just a simple hit. We need a run and that’ll keep it going.”

“Got ya,” he said.

He swung at the first pitch, a fast one straight across the plate, and hit it over the leftfielder’s head. He ran around the bases and ended up with a triple. He felt he could have stretched it into a homer, but the camp director, who was coaching at third, held him up.

“Why’d you stop me?” he said. “I could’ve made it. Then we’d be ahead.”

“Don’t be such a hero,” the camp director said. “Best to play it safe. I also didn’t want you sliding into home and hurting yourself and being sent to the infirmary. Who’d, then, wait your tables?”

He looked at the girl. She was looking at him. She applauded twice in his direction. Little claps. Like a seal would make. No smile, though. He took off his baseball cap and waved it to her. Good move, he thought. Dignified. She had to like it. But she quickly looked away. Anyway, she’d noticed him. He had to meet her. What would he say if he did? First of all, how would he? Like he said, he’d just go over to her and he’d say “Hi, my name is Phil. Or Philip to my friends.” No. No stupid jokes. Don’t even try. “I saw you in the stands. You seemed interesting. You from Pennsylvania?” This would have to be after the game, and as he thought, quick. And hopefully they’d won. Or if they didn’t, then something like “Your team played a good game. I congratulate them. Are you a C.I.T. here?” And then? Well, it’d depend on what she answered. And that he didn’t have much time to talk. “Uncle Abe, one of our camp directors, will be in a rush to get us back. I’d like to write you, if you wouldn’t mind. Can I ask your name”—if she didn’t already give it when he gave his—“and what bunk number you’re in, or your address here, so I can write?” If she asked why he’d want to he’d say “Because I thought, just by looking at you, you were interesting.” That ought to do it. And if they do write each other maybe once or twice while they’re still at camp, what then after camp’s over for both of them at the end of August? Maybe one day take a train or bus to Philadelphia, if that is where she lives, and spend the day with her. Would her parents allow it? Why not? It’d be a weekend afternoon and they’re both sixteen, or she almost is, it seems. And there’d be no problem with his parents. They give him lots of freedom. And he’d have the money — he always has a job after school — to pay for the fare himself. And then go to see her a second time. Hold her hand. Visit a museum. Kiss her. Talk to her. What does she like to read? Or maybe they’d already spoken about this. So what does she like to do in the city? What is she studying at school? Her outside interests. What college does she want to go to? Lots of things. And if she lives outside Philadelphia, there must be a way of getting there, too.

The next man filed out. The score was tied for a couple of innings and then the Na-ho-je team got four more runs, almost all on walks. Since it was softball, it was a seven-inning game. He came up a third time and looked over at her. She wasn’t looking at him; nor had she, when he was on the field or sitting on the bench — at least when he’d looked her — since that one time she clapped. With two strikes on him, he hit a pitch over the centerfielder’s head, even though the outfielders were all playing him deep this time. The centerfielder was fast and had a good arm and threw the ball to third in time to stop him from getting another triple. He was halfway to third and felt lucky to get back to second before he was run down and tagged out. It was by far his longest hit of the day and he looked at the stands to see if she was looking at him, but she wasn’t there. Where the hell she go? Standing on second base, he looked around for her. She and some of her friends were already a ways off, running — it looked like racing — to somewhere with a whole bunch of younger campers, probably the kids they were in charge of. Well, there goes that dream, he thought. Nothing he can do to meet her now, unless she comes back here before his team gets back on the truck and leaves.

The batter behind him ground out to end the inning. They didn’t score another run, though he felt he did all he could to win. Two big hits, no errors or strikeouts, knocking in their only runs. Anyway, they were behind by so much with only one more turn at bat, another run or two wouldn’t have helped.

After the game, they were told to shake the hands of the opposing team, take what refreshments were there — cupcakes and sugar cookies and lemonade — as they probably won’t be getting back in time to have supper before they set up and serve, so they’ll have it after, and then get back on the truck.

When he shook the pitcher’s hand, he said “Good game. You guys played well. What can I say? The better team won. But can I ask you something? There was a girl sitting in the stands. Tall, she seemed, and very pretty, and really blond hair. Over there,” and he pointed. “With some of her friends. You know which one I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, I know her.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“She could. I don’t know. What a question to ask.”

“No good? None of my business, right? She’s intelligent, though. I could tell by her face — sort of the expressions — and the way she smiled and also her laugh, not like a horse. Even the subtle way she applauded me when I got that triple to tie the score.”