this were all there was to it, lulling his arms to stretch and strengthen to handle the big weight. It was a trick, of course. When he went to the plate with only one bat and clicked into the quick intensity of the swing, his arms would find they were able to whip the wood around as if it were a hickory switch. It alwaysworked. his arms never learned. This was a miracle to himâone part of him could remain innocent while another knew perfectly well what was happening.
He was delighted. All of this made him feel mysterious to himself, capable of doing things he could not foresee, with a power that reversed the usual cycle of observation, analysis, understanding, practice, action. This power came from not knowing, not understanding.
Tim took a couple of high ones, then scythed at a low pitch. The ball looped high over first and landed halfway out to right field, just on the line. The right fielder charged hard, scooped it up, and cocked his arm; but instead of firing a throw by instinct, he looked up at Tim rounding first. Tim was ready with a scowl that gave the fielder just a momentâs uncertainty, and by the time the boy recovered, his throw was too late to beat Tim.
Good. Runner in scoring position. Asa clapped. He liked the way Tim played offense (though he was careless and impatient with his mitt on); now they might actually score a run,against all odds. The other team, Table Talk Bakery, was one of the best in the league. Their last game against Asaâs team had ended 9â0, even with the Table Talk scrubs playing the final three innings.
Asa walked to the plate and took his stance. The Table Talk catcher, an ebullient All-Star named James Neal, chattered at him with a stream of good-natured taunts that were taunts nonetheless.
Asa ignored him and began what he called his âcheckup,â going over his positioning limb by limb, using a special perception trick: he pretended he was his stepfather in the stands behind home plate. His stepfather was there, along with his mother; Asa knew this, though he never looked up at them during a game. And Asa knew his stepfather was scrutinizing his every move, holding the set of each elbow or eye against the technically determined ideal adopted when they practiced together. Dave knew everything about baseball, and was a patient, precise teacher. If Asa bent his knees too little, sat back on his heels too much, moved his head during the swing, or failed toroll his wrists all the way in his follow-through, he would hear about it next time they took the field together.
Now he was ready. The pitcher, looking bored, flipped a pitch that caught the outside corner in a hurry. His next one was in the dirt in front of the plate, and his third was high. Asa hated batting against a pitcher who wasnât taking the job seriously: it was impossible to fox someone who had no strategy. He stepped out of the batterâs box, took a practice swing to refocus, then stepped back in. The pitcher, impatient, threw quickly.
The ball flicked toward the plate, and without deciding to swing Asa swungâit just looked like a good one. He hit it flush and it flew away. As he dropped the bat and ran, excitement fluttered in his chest. The ball soared high over center field; he willed it to keep going away, not to peak, not to begin its fall. He had never hit a home run; he had never hit a ball this hard. But as he touched first and watched, the ball faltered in its flight. He knew it would stay in the parkâhis center fielderâs eye would not deceive him, no matter what hishopes. He kept running dutifully, in case of an error, but the excitement turned to a sigh. The outfielder, running back, slowed, turned, reached up, and caught the ball snugly. Asa, too, slowed down and stopped. He could hit okay, but he was small. Talent and technique could not create power.
TWO
When they moved into the big two-story house, Dave did not seem to want to let Asa have one of the two
He was delighted. All of this made him feel mysterious to himself, capable of doing things he could not foresee, with a power that reversed the usual cycle of observation, analysis, understanding, practice, action. This power came from not knowing, not understanding.
Tim took a couple of high ones, then scythed at a low pitch. The ball looped high over first and landed halfway out to right field, just on the line. The right fielder charged hard, scooped it up, and cocked his arm; but instead of firing a throw by instinct, he looked up at Tim rounding first. Tim was ready with a scowl that gave the fielder just a momentâs uncertainty, and by the time the boy recovered, his throw was too late to beat Tim.
Good. Runner in scoring position. Asa clapped. He liked the way Tim played offense (though he was careless and impatient with his mitt on); now they might actually score a run,against all odds. The other team, Table Talk Bakery, was one of the best in the league. Their last game against Asaâs team had ended 9â0, even with the Table Talk scrubs playing the final three innings.
Asa walked to the plate and took his stance. The Table Talk catcher, an ebullient All-Star named James Neal, chattered at him with a stream of good-natured taunts that were taunts nonetheless.
Asa ignored him and began what he called his âcheckup,â going over his positioning limb by limb, using a special perception trick: he pretended he was his stepfather in the stands behind home plate. His stepfather was there, along with his mother; Asa knew this, though he never looked up at them during a game. And Asa knew his stepfather was scrutinizing his every move, holding the set of each elbow or eye against the technically determined ideal adopted when they practiced together. Dave knew everything about baseball, and was a patient, precise teacher. If Asa bent his knees too little, sat back on his heels too much, moved his head during the swing, or failed toroll his wrists all the way in his follow-through, he would hear about it next time they took the field together.
Now he was ready. The pitcher, looking bored, flipped a pitch that caught the outside corner in a hurry. His next one was in the dirt in front of the plate, and his third was high. Asa hated batting against a pitcher who wasnât taking the job seriously: it was impossible to fox someone who had no strategy. He stepped out of the batterâs box, took a practice swing to refocus, then stepped back in. The pitcher, impatient, threw quickly.
The ball flicked toward the plate, and without deciding to swing Asa swungâit just looked like a good one. He hit it flush and it flew away. As he dropped the bat and ran, excitement fluttered in his chest. The ball soared high over center field; he willed it to keep going away, not to peak, not to begin its fall. He had never hit a home run; he had never hit a ball this hard. But as he touched first and watched, the ball faltered in its flight. He knew it would stay in the parkâhis center fielderâs eye would not deceive him, no matter what hishopes. He kept running dutifully, in case of an error, but the excitement turned to a sigh. The outfielder, running back, slowed, turned, reached up, and caught the ball snugly. Asa, too, slowed down and stopped. He could hit okay, but he was small. Talent and technique could not create power.
TWO
When they moved into the big two-story house, Dave did not seem to want to let Asa have one of the two
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