Old Bones: A Collection of Short Stories

by Steve Campbell

Now

  “A STICK OF butter,” I say.

  “Whatever it takes.” Coach Walker nods and returns to his spot next to third base. I watch the pitcher throw bullets to his catcher until the home plate umpire tells him he’s thrown enough. The umpire beckons me to enter the batter’s box. A Yellow Jackets’ fan demands that the pitcher strike me out. My teammates plead for me to get a hit. Coach Walker gives me the take sign and then swings his arms to try to fool the other team into thinking I’m hitting away. My self-assurance teeters; my boosted spirit descends for a moment. I dig my cleats into the dirt anyway and swing my bat menacingly at the pitcher. He responds with a nod to his catcher, mimics a professional pitcher’s windup, and blows a letter high fastball past me.

  “Stee-rike one!” the umpire bellows.

  I try to shut out the voices around me as the catcher taunts me with “No batter no batter no batter.”

  Coach Walker gives me the swing away sign.

  This time I shut out the crowd until I only hear the sound of my heart thumping in my ears. I lace the next fastball pitch behind Coach Andrews standing foul of first base.

  The umpire’s voice is far away. “Foul ball,” he says.

  Coach Andrews gives me a nod and raises his thumbs. Coach Walker gives me another sign to swing away. I dig in at the plate and want to rip the cover off the ball if I should I hit it. I look at a fastball just below my kneecaps.

  I stare at another swing-away sign, dig in, and see another low fastball.

  After the same sign and a high fastball for a full count, Coach Walker calls time and hurries to my side. I meet him halfway. “Butter pitch,” he says.

  I gulp and nod and enter the batter’s box with wobbly legs. Beyond the pitcher, Petey Wilson is dancing at second base. Over at third, Danny Walker is taking a big lead. The pitcher is eyeballing Danny as the third baseman leans toward third base and the second baseman charges second base. Nothing happens, so I step out of the batter’s box and sniff at the dust in the air while my heart rate decreases. Danny and Petey return to their bases until I step back into the batter’s box. Then the dances and my racing heart start again.

  The pitcher nods to his catcher, mimics a professional pitcher’s windup one more time, and sends the ball my way. I’m afraid to swing!

  “Hit the ball!” Julie’s voice breaks the barrier. It seems like she is standing behind me, reaching around me and grabbing my wrists, forcing me to swing at the pitch.

  And she is.

  I feel her embrace, smell her rosy perfume, and hear and feel the clunk of the baseball as it strikes a thin section of the ash bat directly above my right fist. The ball shoots high above the infield. It’s a pop up heading between the third baseman and the shortstop, sending them into the outfield grass.

  With my shoulders slumped in defeat and my face pasted with disappointment, I lope to first base and never see the third baseman and shortstop collide or the ball fall safely to the ground. When I reach the bag and kick it, I hear cheers come from our side of the field. Looking across the diamond, I see Petey Wilson on the heels of Danny Walker. The two of them race toward home. The right fielder fumbles the ball that got away from the other fielders, and Danny and Petey score the tying and winning runs.

  Our dugout and bleachers erupt with whoops and shouts and boisterous cheers. Coach Andrews hugs me and slaps my back. “Luck be a lady tonight,” he says. As we leave the field, Coach Walker hands me the game ball. “It wasn’t the prettiest of hits,” he says, “But it got the job done.”

  My teammates mob me and a few of them remind me how lucky we were to win.

  “An error is an error and two runs scored,” Coach Walker says as he fills his pipe and lights it. He parades us to the infield where we congratulate the other team with handshakes and hand slaps. When we return to the dugout, I see Julie leaving the bleachers with the rest of the crowd. Suddenly, I don’t care what others may think of me. I know I want to talk to her before she goes, so I run to her. Somewhere inside the mass of bodies, I lose her for a moment. Then I see her through the shifting mass. Her head turns and our gazes meet before she disappears again. A beefy hand touches my shoulder and a waft of cherry scented smoke warms my nose.

  “That’s one pitch I would have tried harder to connect with,” Coach Walker says.

  I nod. “I’ve missed a lot of good pitches,” I say.

  I return to the dugout and retrieve my baseball glove. Derek and I walk down the left field foul line, following the others to the parking lot. Inside his car, I tell him what happened while he drives away from the school, past the football field, and toward the sun sinking to the gentle hills of Ridgewood Cemetery.

  Derek stops and I get out. The cast shadows of daylight cover me. I say another prayer for the passenger who the ambulance rushed to the hospital a month ago. At a large and pink marble headstone, I place the game ball on her grave. A breeze stirs through the trees of Ridgewood Cemetery and I embrace its warmth. Julie whispers in an ear, “It didn’t feel like hitting butter.”

  I laugh and share her warmth, and the two of us talk—boy and girl, mortal and spirit—until, in the final moments of twilight, a cooler breeze stirs through the trees of the cemetery and I embrace Julie’s love one last time.