The Constant Variety of Sport (coda)

one week later

“Did it!” yells Jack.  He glances over his shoulder, throws me a silent thumbs up where I am sitting watching, and I send it back to him with a grin.   He turns back to the other players, runs in dizzy circles around his teammates in celebration, tossing his glove in the air.

There are nine Angels after all.  They are finally here, all at once, all together, outnumbering the members of their fellow team, the Dodgers, whose Assistant Coach told a parent within earshot of me that it was best not to figure on any activities requiring coordination with the Angels, because the Angels were “unreliable.”

Unreliable this, bitch. The boys have just finished a drill where they had to stand in a circle with the Coach at the center, and stop 20 consecutive ground balls pitched by him to win.  They kept getting to 18 or 19 and blowing it (never at the hands of the same player twice), then wailing their ill fortune and throwing themselves on the grass in exaggerated dramatics, until they laughed and I laughed and the Coach laughed along with us.  “Batting practice!” he calls out, moving them on.   “Jack, you’re up first.  Everybody else, spread out!”

Jack tosses his glove onto the sideline benches where I am sitting, and grabs a bat and helmet from the equipment pile.  The other players fan out across the diamond, the Coach directing them by the shoulder into the infield and outfield, filling up the spaces.

The Coach’s son winds up just off the dirt, in-between first and second base.  With the drama of the ground ball circle gone, he’s bored again.  He socks his fist into his glove listlessly, sizes Jack up as Jack hefts the aluminum bat and adjusts his helmet.  Then, in a timeless schoolyard gesture of contempt, he turns his back on him:  flops down in the grass and starts talking to the other outfielders.

The Coach catches the movement out of the corner of his eye.  He spins 180 degrees on his heel, eyes blazing.   “OUT!” he barks, pointing to the sidelines.

His son gapes up at him. “But-”

“OUT,” repeats the Coach, and points again, firmly.  “You wanna sit down? You do it over there.”

The boy knows better than to argue.  He picks himself up and slouches off the field, then flops down on the bench in front of me, scowling, with his arms crossed.  His teammates watch him go and glance among themselves, uncertain what to do.   I drop my head, exhale long and silently.  Well whataya know, I think, with a little smile. There’s hope for us yet.

“Ready?” says the Coach to Jack, turning back to the plate.

“Ready,” Jack says, nodding.

The Coach lobs him the ball. He swings-

<TUUNK!>

–and whallops it good:  a soaring line drive that bounces off the infield dirt and hurtles over second base into the clover.

“RUN!” I yell to him, leaping to my feet.  “RUN IT OUT!”   He hurls the bat away and takes off for First Base, pounding, and I laugh and laugh.

Play ball!

***

[To go back and read the main story, click HERE]