Read Online A Quality of Light by Richard Wagamese - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Wagamese
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and the game itself, the magic that we hungered for.
“Wow,” I said when we’d been through both books twice.
“Wow is right. Who’d have figured it was so complicated? I gotta try this stuff,” Johnny said. “Oh, yeah. Here’s a present.”
He pulled a glove out of his pack. It was new and redolent with possibility like new gloves are. Sliding it onto my hand felt as natural as warm mitts in winter.
Wilson
was inked in big curly letters and the deep, shadowy pocket seemed to call out to flying objects like a siren to disoriented sailors. My first glove.
“Wow,” I said again. “Thanks, Johnny. Where’d you get it?”
“My dad’s store. There’s a bunch of stuff in boxes in the basement and I found them. I got one too. And a couple balls,” he said, slipping his new glove on.
“Wanna go try?” I asked rhetorically.
“Yeah. But where?” he asked. “I mean, I wanna look like I know what I’m doing before anyone sees us. You know?”
“Yeah, I know. No one ever goes behind the equipment shed. My dad sometimes but usually in the mornings. Let’s go there.”
“Okay. Josh?”
“Yeah?”
“Blood brothers, right?”
“Blood brothers,” I said and we shook hands solemnly before climbing out of that tree and down into a world that seemed bigger somehow, more focused, brighter, backlit with possibility.
T he paint, it turned out, was for outlining a strike zone on the wall of the shed. We got the general dimensions from the words and pictures in the book, and I stood close to the wall asJohnny described a rough rectangle with the whitewash between the height of my knees and my chest. Then we scouted around the outbuildings for a piece of board, which we cut into a seventeen-inch length that we whitewashed as well. “The plate,” Johnny said quietly. “We can use what’s left as the pitcher’s rubber.” He’d brought a tape measure, and we measured out sixty feet, six inches from where we laid the plate and placed the pitcher’s rubber down. Then we painted a similar rectangle on the wall of the shed on the opposite side of the new plate. “Lefties” was all Johnny said, and I nodded in agreement. By the time we’d finished we were splattered with whitewash, dusty and hot. But it all looked like the diagrams in the book. My dad had passed by a few times, whistling jauntily and pretending not to notice what we were carrying, where we were going or the paint that covered us.
That first afternoon we tossed the ball back and forth for about an hour and a half. Each time it prescribed a loose arc between us and we spent a lot of time chasing it down before returning the throw. The words-and-pictures book was laid in the shade of a chokecherry tree by the fence and we wandered over to it again and again to peruse the section on proper throwing technique. What seemed so natural on the page was much harder to realize once you’d gotten ready, thought about it and then tried to do it. Slowly through that ninety minutes, we traveled the distance between what the mind wanted and what the body could achieve. The throws became throws. Our catches were fumbling, awkward efforts, but by the end of that first afternoon we were both making adequate grabs at least half of the time. I knew that the look of grim determination that slowly transformed itself into joyful satisfaction on Johnny’s face was mirrored in my own.
“Okay. The book says that the pitcher looks at where he’s going to throw,” Johnny said. “Then he steps in that direction. Right?” We were headed towards the house and the supper he’d agreed to readily when I’d mentioned it.
“Right. Pushing off with his back foot,” I answered.
“And the throwing arm follows his weight forward over the line of the shoulder.”
“Yes. Over-hand delivery. Using the shoulder, elbow and wrist. Stepping forward keeps it straight,” I said.
“Right. You did good.”
“Hey, you too.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“You bet. Do
“Wow,” I said when we’d been through both books twice.
“Wow is right. Who’d have figured it was so complicated? I gotta try this stuff,” Johnny said. “Oh, yeah. Here’s a present.”
He pulled a glove out of his pack. It was new and redolent with possibility like new gloves are. Sliding it onto my hand felt as natural as warm mitts in winter.
Wilson
was inked in big curly letters and the deep, shadowy pocket seemed to call out to flying objects like a siren to disoriented sailors. My first glove.
“Wow,” I said again. “Thanks, Johnny. Where’d you get it?”
“My dad’s store. There’s a bunch of stuff in boxes in the basement and I found them. I got one too. And a couple balls,” he said, slipping his new glove on.
“Wanna go try?” I asked rhetorically.
“Yeah. But where?” he asked. “I mean, I wanna look like I know what I’m doing before anyone sees us. You know?”
“Yeah, I know. No one ever goes behind the equipment shed. My dad sometimes but usually in the mornings. Let’s go there.”
“Okay. Josh?”
“Yeah?”
“Blood brothers, right?”
“Blood brothers,” I said and we shook hands solemnly before climbing out of that tree and down into a world that seemed bigger somehow, more focused, brighter, backlit with possibility.
T he paint, it turned out, was for outlining a strike zone on the wall of the shed. We got the general dimensions from the words and pictures in the book, and I stood close to the wall asJohnny described a rough rectangle with the whitewash between the height of my knees and my chest. Then we scouted around the outbuildings for a piece of board, which we cut into a seventeen-inch length that we whitewashed as well. “The plate,” Johnny said quietly. “We can use what’s left as the pitcher’s rubber.” He’d brought a tape measure, and we measured out sixty feet, six inches from where we laid the plate and placed the pitcher’s rubber down. Then we painted a similar rectangle on the wall of the shed on the opposite side of the new plate. “Lefties” was all Johnny said, and I nodded in agreement. By the time we’d finished we were splattered with whitewash, dusty and hot. But it all looked like the diagrams in the book. My dad had passed by a few times, whistling jauntily and pretending not to notice what we were carrying, where we were going or the paint that covered us.
That first afternoon we tossed the ball back and forth for about an hour and a half. Each time it prescribed a loose arc between us and we spent a lot of time chasing it down before returning the throw. The words-and-pictures book was laid in the shade of a chokecherry tree by the fence and we wandered over to it again and again to peruse the section on proper throwing technique. What seemed so natural on the page was much harder to realize once you’d gotten ready, thought about it and then tried to do it. Slowly through that ninety minutes, we traveled the distance between what the mind wanted and what the body could achieve. The throws became throws. Our catches were fumbling, awkward efforts, but by the end of that first afternoon we were both making adequate grabs at least half of the time. I knew that the look of grim determination that slowly transformed itself into joyful satisfaction on Johnny’s face was mirrored in my own.
“Okay. The book says that the pitcher looks at where he’s going to throw,” Johnny said. “Then he steps in that direction. Right?” We were headed towards the house and the supper he’d agreed to readily when I’d mentioned it.
“Right. Pushing off with his back foot,” I answered.
“And the throwing arm follows his weight forward over the line of the shoulder.”
“Yes. Over-hand delivery. Using the shoulder, elbow and wrist. Stepping forward keeps it straight,” I said.
“Right. You did good.”
“Hey, you too.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“You bet. Do
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