easily as water fl owing around a rock. I did notice that Lori Chang looked a little nervous in the batter’s box, but that was nothing unusual. As bold and powerful as she was on the mound, Lori was a surprisingly timid hitter. She tucked herself into an extreme crouch, shrinking the strike zone down to a few inches, and tried to wait out a walk. She rarely swung and was widely, and fairly, considered to be an easy out.
For some reason, though, Ricky seemed oddly tentative with his fi rst couple of pitches. Ball one kicked up dirt ten feet from the plate. Ball two was a mile outside.
“Come on,” Carl called impatiently from the dugout. “Just do it.”
Lori tapped the fat end of her bat on the plate. I checked my clicker and squatted into position. Ricky glanced at his father and started into his herky-jerky windup.
On TV, it all looks so fast and clean — Lori gets beaned and she goes down. But on the fi eld it was slow and jumbled, my brain lagging a beat behind the action. Before I can process the fact that the ball’s rocketing toward her head, Lori’s already said, “Ooof!” Her helmet’s in the air before I register the sickening crack of impact, and by then she’s already crumpled on the ground. On TV it looks as though I move quickly, rolling her onto her back and coming in close to check her breathing, but in my memory it’s as if I’m paralyzed, as if the world has stopped and all I can do is stare at the bareheaded girl lying motionless at my feet.
Th en the quiet bursts into commotion. Tim’s right beside me, shouting, “Is she okay? Is she okay?” Ricky’s moving toward us from the mound, his glove pressed to his mouth, his eyes stricken with terror and remorse.
“Did I hurt her?” he asks. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“I think you killed her,” I tell him, because as far as I can tell, Lori’s not breathing. Ricky stumbles backward, as if someone’s pushed him. He turns in the direction of his father, who’s just stepped out of the dugout.
“You shouldn’t have made me do that!” Ricky yells.
“Oh my God,” says Carl. He looks pale and panicky.
At that same moment, Happy Chang’s scaling the third-base fence and sprinting across the in fi eld to check on his daughter’s condition. At least that’s what I think he’s doing, right up to the moment when he veers suddenly toward Carl, emitting a cry of guttural rage, and tackles him savagely to the ground.
Happy Chang is a small man, no bigger than some of our Little Leaguers, and Carl is tall and bulked up from years of religious weight li ft ing, but it’s no contest. Within seconds, Happy Chang’s straddling Carl’s chest and punching him repeatedly in the face, all the while shouting what must be very angry things in Chinese. Carl doesn’t even try to defend himself, not even when Happy Chang reaches for his throat.
Luckily for Carl, two of our local policemen — O ffi cers Freylinghausen and Hughes, oddly enough the same two who’d arrested me for domestic battery — are present at the game, and before Happy Chang can fi nish throttling Carl, they’ve rushed onto the fi eld and broken up the fi ght. Th ey take Happy Chang into custody with a surprising amount of force — with me they were oddly polite — Freylinghausen grinding his face into the dirt while Hughes slaps on the cu ff s. I’m so engrossed in the spectacle that I don’t even realize that Lori’s regained consciousness until I hear her voice.
“Daddy?” she says quietly, and for a second I think she’s talking to me.
MY WHOLE life fell apart a ft er I broke my son’s nose. By the time I got out on bail the next morning, Jeanie had already taken the kids to her mother’s house and slapped me with a restraining order. Th e day a ft er that she started divorce proceedings.
In the year that had passed since then, nothing much had changed. I had tried apologizing in a thousand di ff erent ways, but it didn’t seem to matter. As
For some reason, though, Ricky seemed oddly tentative with his fi rst couple of pitches. Ball one kicked up dirt ten feet from the plate. Ball two was a mile outside.
“Come on,” Carl called impatiently from the dugout. “Just do it.”
Lori tapped the fat end of her bat on the plate. I checked my clicker and squatted into position. Ricky glanced at his father and started into his herky-jerky windup.
On TV, it all looks so fast and clean — Lori gets beaned and she goes down. But on the fi eld it was slow and jumbled, my brain lagging a beat behind the action. Before I can process the fact that the ball’s rocketing toward her head, Lori’s already said, “Ooof!” Her helmet’s in the air before I register the sickening crack of impact, and by then she’s already crumpled on the ground. On TV it looks as though I move quickly, rolling her onto her back and coming in close to check her breathing, but in my memory it’s as if I’m paralyzed, as if the world has stopped and all I can do is stare at the bareheaded girl lying motionless at my feet.
Th en the quiet bursts into commotion. Tim’s right beside me, shouting, “Is she okay? Is she okay?” Ricky’s moving toward us from the mound, his glove pressed to his mouth, his eyes stricken with terror and remorse.
“Did I hurt her?” he asks. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“I think you killed her,” I tell him, because as far as I can tell, Lori’s not breathing. Ricky stumbles backward, as if someone’s pushed him. He turns in the direction of his father, who’s just stepped out of the dugout.
“You shouldn’t have made me do that!” Ricky yells.
“Oh my God,” says Carl. He looks pale and panicky.
At that same moment, Happy Chang’s scaling the third-base fence and sprinting across the in fi eld to check on his daughter’s condition. At least that’s what I think he’s doing, right up to the moment when he veers suddenly toward Carl, emitting a cry of guttural rage, and tackles him savagely to the ground.
Happy Chang is a small man, no bigger than some of our Little Leaguers, and Carl is tall and bulked up from years of religious weight li ft ing, but it’s no contest. Within seconds, Happy Chang’s straddling Carl’s chest and punching him repeatedly in the face, all the while shouting what must be very angry things in Chinese. Carl doesn’t even try to defend himself, not even when Happy Chang reaches for his throat.
Luckily for Carl, two of our local policemen — O ffi cers Freylinghausen and Hughes, oddly enough the same two who’d arrested me for domestic battery — are present at the game, and before Happy Chang can fi nish throttling Carl, they’ve rushed onto the fi eld and broken up the fi ght. Th ey take Happy Chang into custody with a surprising amount of force — with me they were oddly polite — Freylinghausen grinding his face into the dirt while Hughes slaps on the cu ff s. I’m so engrossed in the spectacle that I don’t even realize that Lori’s regained consciousness until I hear her voice.
“Daddy?” she says quietly, and for a second I think she’s talking to me.
MY WHOLE life fell apart a ft er I broke my son’s nose. By the time I got out on bail the next morning, Jeanie had already taken the kids to her mother’s house and slapped me with a restraining order. Th e day a ft er that she started divorce proceedings.
In the year that had passed since then, nothing much had changed. I had tried apologizing in a thousand di ff erent ways, but it didn’t seem to matter. As
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