Ham On Rye

I watched the ball leave his fingers through a blaze of sun. It was a murderous humming blur, but it could be had. It was below my knees and far out of the strike zone. His catcher had to dive to get it.

"Ball one," mumbled the old neighborhood fart who umpired our games. He was a night watchman in a department store and he liked to talk to the girls. "I got two daughters at home just like you girls. Real cute. They wear tight dresses too." He liked to crouch over the plate and show them his big buttocks, that's all he had, that and one gold tooth.

The catcher threw the ball back to Kitten Floss.

"Hey, Pussy!" I yelled out to him.

"You talkin' to me?"

"I'm talking to you, short-arm. You gotta come closer than that or I'll have to call a cab."

"The next one is all yours," he told me.

"Good," I said. I dug in.

He went through his routine again, nodding like he was getting a sign, checking the infield. Those green eyes stared at me through that dirty brown hair. I watched him wind-up. I saw the ball leave his fingers, a dark fleck against the sky in the sun and then suddenly it was zooming toward my skull. I dropped in my tracks, feeling it brush the hair of my head.

"Strike one," mumbled the old fart.

"What?" I yelled. The catcher was still holding the ball. He was as surprised at the call as I was. I took the ball from him and showed it to the umpire.

"What's this?" I asked him.

"It's a baseball."

"Fine. Remember what it looks like."

I took the ball and walked out to the mound. The green eyes didn't flinch under the dirty hair. But the mouth opened up just a bit, like a frog sucking air. I walked up to Kitten.

"I don't swing with my head. The next time you do that I am going to jam this thing right up through your shorts and past where you forget to wipe."

I handed him the ball and walked back to the plate. I dug in and waved my bat.

"One and one," said the old fart.

Floss kicked dirt around on the mound. He stared off into left field. There was nothing out there except a starving dog scratching his ear. Floss looked in for a sign. He was thinking of the girls, trying to look good. The old fart crouched low, spreading his dumb buttocks, also trying to look good. I was probably one of the few with his mind on the business at hand.

The time came, Kitten Floss went into his wind-up. That left hand windmill could panic you if you let it. You had to be patient and wait for the ball. Finally they had to let it go. Then it was yours to destroy and the harder they threw it in the harder you could hit it out of there.

I saw the ball leave his fingers as one of the girls screamed. Floss hadn't lost his zip. The ball looked like a bee-bee, only it got larger and it was headed right for my skull again. All I knew was that I was trying to find the dirt as fast as I could. I got a mouthful.

"SEERIKE TWO!" I heard the old fart yell. He couldn't even pronounce the word. Get a man who works for nothing and you get a man who just likes to hang around.

I got up and brushed the dirt off. It was even down in my shorts. My mother was going to ask me, "Henry, how did you ever get your shorts so dirty? Now don't make that face. Smile, and be happy!"

I walked to the mound. I stood right there. Nobody said anything. I just looked at Kitten. I had the bat in my hand. I took the bat by the end and pressed it against his nose. He slapped it away. I turned and walked back toward the plate. Halfway there I stopped. I turned and stared at him again. Then I walked to the plate.

I dug in and waved my bat. This one was going to be mine. The Kitten peered in for the non-existent sign. He looked a long time, then shook his head, no. He kept staring through that dirty hair with those green eyes. I waved my bat more powerfully.

" Hit it out, Butch!" screamed one of the girls.

" Batch! Batch! Batch!'" screamed another girl. Then the Kitten turned his back on us and just stared out into center field.

"Time," I said and stepped out of the box. There was a very cute girl in an orange dress. Her hair was blond and it hung straight down, like a yellow waterfall, beautiful, and I caught her eye for a moment and she said, "Butch, please do it."

"Shut up," I said and stepped back into the box. The pitch came. I saw it all the way. It was my pitch. Unfortunately, I was looking for the duster. I wanted the duster so I could go out to the mound and kill or be killed. The ball sailed right over the center of the plate. By the time I adjusted the best I could do was swing weakly over the top of it as it went by. The bastard had suckered me all the way.

He got me on three straight strikes next time. I swear he must have been at least 23 years old. Probably a semi-pro.

One of our guys finally did get a single off him.

But I was good in the field. I made some catches. I moved out there. I knew that the more I saw of the Kitten's fireball the more I was apt to solve it. He wasn't trying to knock out my brains anymore. He didn't have to. He was just smoking them down the middle. I hoped it was only a matter of time before I golfed one out of there.

But things got worse and worse. I didn't like it. The girls didn't either. Not only was green eyes great on the mound, he was great at the plate. The first two times up he hit a homer and a double. The third time up he swung under a pitch and looped a high blooper between Abe at second base and me in center field. I came charging in, the girls screaming, but Abe kept looking up and back over his shoulder, his mouth drooping down, looking up, looking like a fool really, that wet mouth open. I came charging in screaming, "It's mine!" It was really his but somehow I couldn't bear to let him make the catch. The guy was nothing but an idiot book- reader and I didn't really like him so I came charging in very hard as the ball dropped. We crashed into one another, the ball popped out of his glove and into the air as he fell to the ground, and I caught the ball off his glove. I stood there over him as he lay on the ground.

"Get up, you dumb bastard," I told him. Abe stayed on the ground. He was crying. He was holding his left arm.

"I think my arm is broken," he said.

"Get up, chickenshit."

Abe finally got up and walked off the held, crying and holding his arm.

I looked around. "All right," I said, "let's play ball!"

But everybody was walking away, even the girls. The game was evidently over. I hung around awhile and then I started walking home…

Just before di

Then she came into my bedroom.

"Please come to the front room," she said. I walked in and sat on the couch. They each had a chair. It was always that way. Chairs meant you belonged. The couch was for visitors.

"Mrs. Mortenson just phoned. They've taken x-rays. You broke her son's arm."

"It was an accident," I said.

"She says she is going to sue us. She'll get a Jewish lawyer. They'll take everything we have."

"We don't have very much."

My mother was one of those silent criers. As she cried the tears came faster and faster. Her cheeks were starting to glisten in the evening twilight.

She wiped her eyes. They were a dull light brown.

"Why did you break that boy's arm?"

"It was a pop-up. We both went for it."

"What is this 'pop-up'?"

"Whoever gets it, gets it."

"So you got the 'pop-up'?"

"Yes."

"But how can this 'pop-up' help us? The Jewish lawyer will still have the broken arm on his side."

I got up and walked back to my bedroom to wait for di