Read Online Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum - Free Book Online
Authors: Liza Ketchum
Tags: Young Adult
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beyond the Pesky Foul Pole. I scoot into the fourth row up—better than our usual spot—open a seat in the middle and sit. Wait. And listen.
Nothing. The hum of traffic in the distance. Hammering behind the bleachers.
This is crazy. As crazy as Mom thinking Dad has turned into a talking cardinal. Maybe we’re both nuts.
What would Dad do in this empty park? Climb into the Monster Seats? The guy in the booth wouldn’t like that. I close my eyes.
My memories are a blur. I should have kept scorecards so I’d remember specific games, but Dad dismissed them. “Study the field, soak it all in,” he said. “Listen to the peanut guy, the crack of the bat. Smell the cotton candy. Watch for the guy hiding behind the scoreboard.”
I smile. When I was little, I thought that the scoreboard guy lived back there, and I always wondered where he went to the bathroom. Dad’s face is hazy in my mind but I can hear his voice, that slight hint of Canadian accent, the way he said “oat” for “out.” Maybe he’s here, perched on the edge of his seat next to me, sipping a beer, ready to leap if someone hits a foul ball into our section—or, better yet, if the batter smokes one into deep right, bringing three men home.
Of course, when I open my eyes, I’m still alone. I climb over the seats to the first row and lean out over the dugout roof. My first real memory of the park, I was on Dad’s shoulders when we snaked through the crowds, so I was probably what—five? I remember how the flag snapped in the wind, how I thought the giant Coke bottle was filled with real Coke. I was wearing my glove, of course. Dad set me down at the top of the ramp and we looked out over the greenest grass I’d ever seen, the color of emeralds. The players were out on the field, warming up, their home uniforms clean and crisp, smiles cocky. They moved like dancers as they shagged balls and fired them back like bullets. “They make it look so easy, don’t they?” Dad probably said. It was true. Still is.
I studied the field that day. No sign of the man I wanted. “Where is he?”
“Still in the clubhouse, I bet.” Dad led me to the railing near the dugout, where I’m standing now. “Wait here—maybe you can get his autograph.” He handed me a ball and I clutched it, afraid I’d drop it.
When Mo finally emerged from the dugout, my heart raced. He was huge, even bigger in real life than on TV, with legs like tree trunks. His ebony skin gleamed. And his number? 42. Like Robinson.
“Mo!” I cried, and held out my ball. “Mo, over here!” I reached out until I nearly fell into the field.
A miracle: Vaughn stopped, flashed his signature smile, and winked at me. Then he touched the brim of his cap and kept going. “Mo,” I whispered. Like an incantation, or a prayer. And then I realized: I’d forgotten to ask for his autograph.
Dad came up to me then, set his hand on my shoulder—
*
“Ahh!” I spin around as someone grips my shoulder now . “Jesus!” It’s the guy from the ticket booth. I pull away. “Dude—you scared me. Thought you were someone else.”
“Sorry.” The guy raises his hands. “Guess you didn’t hear me. The park’s about to close.” His voice is raspy but kind. “Tough memories?”
“Yeah. My dad died a few weeks ago. That was our spot, up there.” I point to the Pesky Pole, its yellow more intense than usual. It guards this end of the park like a sentinel. “For some reason, whenever Dad bought seats, those were the only ones available.”
The guy leans on the dugout beside me. “Sorry for your loss. How’d he die?”
“Car accident, middle of the night.” I can’t believe I’m spewing my guts to a perfect stranger. He’s quiet, paying attention—which is more than I can say about the so-called “grief counselor” who called me last week.
“Gone with no warning? That’s awful. Out of left field.” He tugs on his mustache. “What’d your dad think of this year’s
Nothing. The hum of traffic in the distance. Hammering behind the bleachers.
This is crazy. As crazy as Mom thinking Dad has turned into a talking cardinal. Maybe we’re both nuts.
What would Dad do in this empty park? Climb into the Monster Seats? The guy in the booth wouldn’t like that. I close my eyes.
My memories are a blur. I should have kept scorecards so I’d remember specific games, but Dad dismissed them. “Study the field, soak it all in,” he said. “Listen to the peanut guy, the crack of the bat. Smell the cotton candy. Watch for the guy hiding behind the scoreboard.”
I smile. When I was little, I thought that the scoreboard guy lived back there, and I always wondered where he went to the bathroom. Dad’s face is hazy in my mind but I can hear his voice, that slight hint of Canadian accent, the way he said “oat” for “out.” Maybe he’s here, perched on the edge of his seat next to me, sipping a beer, ready to leap if someone hits a foul ball into our section—or, better yet, if the batter smokes one into deep right, bringing three men home.
Of course, when I open my eyes, I’m still alone. I climb over the seats to the first row and lean out over the dugout roof. My first real memory of the park, I was on Dad’s shoulders when we snaked through the crowds, so I was probably what—five? I remember how the flag snapped in the wind, how I thought the giant Coke bottle was filled with real Coke. I was wearing my glove, of course. Dad set me down at the top of the ramp and we looked out over the greenest grass I’d ever seen, the color of emeralds. The players were out on the field, warming up, their home uniforms clean and crisp, smiles cocky. They moved like dancers as they shagged balls and fired them back like bullets. “They make it look so easy, don’t they?” Dad probably said. It was true. Still is.
I studied the field that day. No sign of the man I wanted. “Where is he?”
“Still in the clubhouse, I bet.” Dad led me to the railing near the dugout, where I’m standing now. “Wait here—maybe you can get his autograph.” He handed me a ball and I clutched it, afraid I’d drop it.
When Mo finally emerged from the dugout, my heart raced. He was huge, even bigger in real life than on TV, with legs like tree trunks. His ebony skin gleamed. And his number? 42. Like Robinson.
“Mo!” I cried, and held out my ball. “Mo, over here!” I reached out until I nearly fell into the field.
A miracle: Vaughn stopped, flashed his signature smile, and winked at me. Then he touched the brim of his cap and kept going. “Mo,” I whispered. Like an incantation, or a prayer. And then I realized: I’d forgotten to ask for his autograph.
Dad came up to me then, set his hand on my shoulder—
*
“Ahh!” I spin around as someone grips my shoulder now . “Jesus!” It’s the guy from the ticket booth. I pull away. “Dude—you scared me. Thought you were someone else.”
“Sorry.” The guy raises his hands. “Guess you didn’t hear me. The park’s about to close.” His voice is raspy but kind. “Tough memories?”
“Yeah. My dad died a few weeks ago. That was our spot, up there.” I point to the Pesky Pole, its yellow more intense than usual. It guards this end of the park like a sentinel. “For some reason, whenever Dad bought seats, those were the only ones available.”
The guy leans on the dugout beside me. “Sorry for your loss. How’d he die?”
“Car accident, middle of the night.” I can’t believe I’m spewing my guts to a perfect stranger. He’s quiet, paying attention—which is more than I can say about the so-called “grief counselor” who called me last week.
“Gone with no warning? That’s awful. Out of left field.” He tugs on his mustache. “What’d your dad think of this year’s
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