out too late?
I only hit him that once. He said something that shocked me and I slapped him across the face. He was the one who threw the fi rst punch, a feeble right cross that landed on the side of my head. Later, when I had time to think about it, I was proud of him for fi ghting back. But at the time, it just made me crazy. I couldn’t believe the little faggot had hit me. Th e punch I threw in return is the one thing in my life I’ll regret forever. I broke his nose, and Jeanie called the cops. I was taken from my house in handcu ff s, the cries of my wife and children echoing in my ears. As I ducked into the patrol car, I looked up and saw Carl watching me from his front stoop, shaking his head and trying to comfort Marie, who for some reason was sobbing audibly in the darkness, as if it were her own child whose face I’d bloodied in a moment of thoughtless rage.
LORI CHANG kept her perfect game going all the way into the top of the fift h, when Pete Gonzalez, the Wildcats’ all-star shortstop, ripped a two-out single to center. A raucous cheer erupted from the third-base dugout and bleachers, both of which had lapsed into a funereal silence over the past couple of innings. It was an electrifying sound, a collective whoop of relief, celebration, and resurgent hope.
On a psychological level, that one hit changed everything. It was as if the whole ballpark suddenly woke up to two important facts: (1) Lori Chang was not, in fact, invincible; and (2) the Wildcats could actually still win. Th e score was only 1–0 in favor of the Ravens, a margin that had seemed insurmountable a moment ago but that suddenly looked a whole lot slimmer now that the tying run was standing on fi rst with a lopsided grin on his face, shi ft ing his weight from leg to leg like he needed to go to the bathroom.
Th e only person who didn’t seem to notice that the calculus of the game had changed was Lori Chang herself. She stood on the mound with her usual poker face, an expression that suggested profound boredom more than it did killer concentration, and waited for Trevor Mancini to make the sign of the cross and knock imaginary mud o ff his cleats. Once he got himself settled, she nodded to the catcher and began her windup, bringing her arms overhead and lowering them with the painstaking deliberation of a Tai Chi master. Th en she kicked high and whipped a fastball right at Trevor, a guided missile that thudded into his leg with a mu ffl ed whump, the sound of a broomstick smacking a rug.
“Aaah, shit!” Trevor fl ipped his bat in the air and began hopping around on one foot, rubbing frantically at his leg. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
I stepped out from behind the catcher and asked if he was okay. Trevor gritted his teeth and performed what appeared to be an involuntary bow. When he straightened up, he looked more embarrassed than hurt.
“Stings,” he explained.
I told him to take his base and he hobbled o ff , still massaging the sore spot. A chorus of boos had risen from the third-base side, and I wasn’t surprised to see that Carl was already out of the dugout, walking toward me with what could only be described as an amused expression.
“Well?” he said. “What are you gonna do about it?”
“ Th e batter was hit by a pitch. It’s part of the game.”
“Are you kidding me? She threw right at him.”
Right on schedule, Tim came trotting over to join us, followed immediately by Ray Santelli, who approached with his distinctive potbellied swagger, radiating an odd con fi dence that made you forget that he was just a middle-aged chau ff eur with a combover.
“What’s up?” he inquired. “Somebody got a problem?”
“Yeah, me,” Carl told him. “I got a problem with your sweet little pitcher throwing beanballs at my players.”
“ Th at was no beanball,” I pointed out. “It hit him in the leg.”
“So that’s okay?” Carl was one of those guys who smiled when he was pissed o ff . “It’s okay to hit my
I only hit him that once. He said something that shocked me and I slapped him across the face. He was the one who threw the fi rst punch, a feeble right cross that landed on the side of my head. Later, when I had time to think about it, I was proud of him for fi ghting back. But at the time, it just made me crazy. I couldn’t believe the little faggot had hit me. Th e punch I threw in return is the one thing in my life I’ll regret forever. I broke his nose, and Jeanie called the cops. I was taken from my house in handcu ff s, the cries of my wife and children echoing in my ears. As I ducked into the patrol car, I looked up and saw Carl watching me from his front stoop, shaking his head and trying to comfort Marie, who for some reason was sobbing audibly in the darkness, as if it were her own child whose face I’d bloodied in a moment of thoughtless rage.
LORI CHANG kept her perfect game going all the way into the top of the fift h, when Pete Gonzalez, the Wildcats’ all-star shortstop, ripped a two-out single to center. A raucous cheer erupted from the third-base dugout and bleachers, both of which had lapsed into a funereal silence over the past couple of innings. It was an electrifying sound, a collective whoop of relief, celebration, and resurgent hope.
On a psychological level, that one hit changed everything. It was as if the whole ballpark suddenly woke up to two important facts: (1) Lori Chang was not, in fact, invincible; and (2) the Wildcats could actually still win. Th e score was only 1–0 in favor of the Ravens, a margin that had seemed insurmountable a moment ago but that suddenly looked a whole lot slimmer now that the tying run was standing on fi rst with a lopsided grin on his face, shi ft ing his weight from leg to leg like he needed to go to the bathroom.
Th e only person who didn’t seem to notice that the calculus of the game had changed was Lori Chang herself. She stood on the mound with her usual poker face, an expression that suggested profound boredom more than it did killer concentration, and waited for Trevor Mancini to make the sign of the cross and knock imaginary mud o ff his cleats. Once he got himself settled, she nodded to the catcher and began her windup, bringing her arms overhead and lowering them with the painstaking deliberation of a Tai Chi master. Th en she kicked high and whipped a fastball right at Trevor, a guided missile that thudded into his leg with a mu ffl ed whump, the sound of a broomstick smacking a rug.
“Aaah, shit!” Trevor fl ipped his bat in the air and began hopping around on one foot, rubbing frantically at his leg. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
I stepped out from behind the catcher and asked if he was okay. Trevor gritted his teeth and performed what appeared to be an involuntary bow. When he straightened up, he looked more embarrassed than hurt.
“Stings,” he explained.
I told him to take his base and he hobbled o ff , still massaging the sore spot. A chorus of boos had risen from the third-base side, and I wasn’t surprised to see that Carl was already out of the dugout, walking toward me with what could only be described as an amused expression.
“Well?” he said. “What are you gonna do about it?”
“ Th e batter was hit by a pitch. It’s part of the game.”
“Are you kidding me? She threw right at him.”
Right on schedule, Tim came trotting over to join us, followed immediately by Ray Santelli, who approached with his distinctive potbellied swagger, radiating an odd con fi dence that made you forget that he was just a middle-aged chau ff eur with a combover.
“What’s up?” he inquired. “Somebody got a problem?”
“Yeah, me,” Carl told him. “I got a problem with your sweet little pitcher throwing beanballs at my players.”
“ Th at was no beanball,” I pointed out. “It hit him in the leg.”
“So that’s okay?” Carl was one of those guys who smiled when he was pissed o ff . “It’s okay to hit my
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