The Summer of the Homerun Read online



  The Summer of the Homerun

  By Michael Stephen Daigle

  Copyright 2013 Michael Stephen Daigle

  The Summer of the Homerun

  The summer I turned thirteen Coach let me pitch.

  I got to do all those things a shortstop never did: Spit on my hands and rub the moisture into the smooth white leather of a new ball, kick the soft dirt from in front of the rubber before I dug my foot in, look over at the third baseman and grin, and most of all, lean over at the waist and squint at our catcher Ray's wiggling fingers giving the magic signs.

  Everybody – the fielders, the batter, the coaches, the scrubs on the bench, the umps and whatever few parents stood under the trees down the right field line, everyone – waited for the pitcher to lean over for a few seconds, nod at the catcher, finger the ball in his glove, rise back up, glance at the field a second, and if there was a runner on a base, stare him down. Then he’d rock back and bring up his arms and step toward home plate. His arm would coil like a whip and flash past his head and he’d lean over when the ball left his hand like a white dart, his front leg kicking up dust as he followed through and landed as the ball disappeared into the catcher’s mitt.

  Time had stopped the moment before, and when the ball flew forward, we all breathed again.

  If the batter hit the ball all the players moved like precision parts connected by an invisible wire The left fielder scooped up the ball and looked over and saw that I, as shortstop, had shifted to a point in line with second base with my gloved hand raised like beacon, knowing the second baseman was standing hunched beside the base as the runner cut the right angle at first base and was drawing a bead on the sack; it took half a minute for the play to unfold, from the time the ball left the bat to land in the outfield and for the fielder to catch and throw the ball and for it to arrive at the moment the runner started a slide and the second baseman leaned into the throw and braced for the tag, the shouts of the players being swallowed in the rising cheers from the sidelines, the slapping of spikes in the hard ground lost in the dust that rose when the runner threw himself toward the base as the ball arrived and the ump yelled, “Safe!” as he waved his arms to his sides. Then the dust and the shouts settled out and the kid on second base looked over at his coach and gave a little smile while he brushed his pants.

  Might not seem like a big deal, being allowed to pitch in a summer league baseball game, but for us, summer was the game and the game was our summer, what we lived for.

  Our town was not that big, but it was spread out and we could go all summer and not see any of our friends. Anything could happen, like the year when we moved from sixth grade to the middle school and found out only when we got back to school that Jackie Dennis, the girl everybody on the baseball team wanted to take to the movies because she was like the prettiest girl in three counties, like we knew girls in three counties, but you know what I mean. Anyway, she had moved because her father, who was a minister, had been transferred to a church in, like, Iowa. We didn’t even know that minsters got transferred. I mean, all the ministers in all the rest of the town’s churches were old like they founded the church or something.

  But anyway, we only found out Jackie Dennis had moved when she wasn’t sitting in the second seat of the third row in homeroom. That’s where she always sat, between Allan Anderson on her left, whose name was always second behind Brenda Ades, and Eddie Madden, who was always in the second seat of the fourth row. I always sat in the fourth seat of the fifth row and had a perfect angle view of Jackie Dennis. She had the blondest hair. It shined like it absorbed the sunlight, and she had a soft, round face with green eyes and a pretty little crooked smile.

  You know who sat in her seat now? Frankie Earl. I didn’t like Frankie Earl. He had a chain hooked to his grubby blue jeans so I guess that when he got home, they put a lock on it so, what, he wouldn’t run away? He’d come to school with a hardpack of smokes rolled into the sleeve of his t-shirt until the principal would take it away.

  It’s not like I would have had a chance with Jackie Dennis anyway. She was too perfect. She moved with a confidence that I could never figure out. Her friends were all smart and she always gave the speech at graduation or at the Memorial Day parade, and read the notices during homeroom.

  She knew my name, and would always say “Hi, Smitty,” when we passed in the hallways, but I’d never have a chance with her.

  That’s why getting to pitch that summer was such a big deal.

  I was just a kid from the outskirts. We lived with our Mom who worked in Syracuse so sometimes it seemed like we raised ourselves. Most of the other kids on the team had played in Little League while I learned how to play by slamming a tennis ball off the cement front steps. We called the game “Home Run Derby” because if the ball came off the steps just landed across the road in the air and was not caught, it was a home run. Sometimes it happened a lot. The field across the road had tall grass and stumps and branches, and well, you get the idea. If the ball made it past the fielder on the fly and he had a chance to catch it, it was a triple. If it landed in the road on the fly it was a double, and everything else was a single. If you caught the ball it was an out.

  Might not seem like a big deal, but a couple of years of snagging line drives off those cement steps made me pretty quick, both ways. Coach said I had soft hands. I guess I was an okay player.

  No one gave me a hard time because I was the only kid on the team who didn’t have spikes. I played in sneakers. Sometimes a player on the opposing team would say something, but after I threw him out on a ball hit deep in the hole at short, I’d look at him as if to say, “Hey, look. No spikes. You’re still out.”

  Got a little off topic here, but it’s like what happens after a pitcher walks two batters in a row, and we all go to the mound and tell him to knock it off.

  Anyway, until Coach let me pitch, the summer had been about as interesting as playing right field, where they stuck your little brother so he wouldn't get hurt.

  After that, everything changed and filled with possibility, like waiting on a hanging curve ball with the bases loaded.

  We got out of school in June like always, and said good-bye like always to the kids we wouldn't see until fall, you know, like it was then end of the world. And as July dragged into view about the only thing that was different was the farewell speech Mr. Winterby, the junior high principal, gave at the end of the school year. We were about to become freshmen in high school, or as Mr. Winterby put it, "step into a new frontier." What did he know that we didn't? I mean, how different could it be?

  I know one thing that wasn't different. Sandy Miller hadn't gone on a date with me. Of course, I hadn't really asked her, but I was thinking about it. We'd talk on the phone a couple of times a day, and at the end of the second call, her voice would go all soft and hinting-like and I would try to say, "Wanna go to a movie?" But my voice would go all thin and watery and we'd just hang up. We did meet at the theater a couple of times, you know, me with Jimmy and Ray, and she with Gloria and Judy. We'd just sort of bump into each other in the lobby in line for popcorn and talk a little and make eyes at each other, and well, that's not really a date.

  You know what I mean? It was that kind of summer.

  But maybe it was because Sandy and I were pretty good friends. We were in a lot of classes together and sat with each other on the bus to church choir.

  We were part of the same group of kids. We had known each other since like second grade and through those years drifted in and out of each other’s circle and sometimes sat together at lunch. She was always borrowing a quarter from me.

  One time we were at a party at some friend’s house and we left together.
We walked along the street and she’d run over to one of her friend’s houses and look in the front windows. She’d grab my hand and drag me over. And I’d be like, Jeez, what if someone looks out, and she’d laugh and say that’s the point. After one stop, we held hands for the next block or so, and kind of slowed down. She was cute, not Jackie Dennis beautiful, but sweet and pretty. Maybe Jackie Dennis was too perfect and knew it. When we got to Sandy’s house, we stood under the maple on the front lawn for a long time and looked at the stars. I wanted to put my arm around her waist, but just took her hand. Sandy held it for a second and then pulled away. I wanted to ask her to go out, but just said,