by Joe Gribble
now. Five when I'm ready for the prosthesis,” Bob says.
“Good. That's your priority. We’ll worry about your career later,” Kepler says.
“That leaves me a lot of time. What can I do around here?” Bob asks.
“We've got some Airmen right out of tech school, backups for our deployed team. I could use someone to keep an eye on them. The scheduler could use some help, too.” Kepler glances at his watch, then stands up.
Bob senses the meeting is over. He stands as well.
“Check with the First Sergeant. But job number one is to focus on your rehab. Clear?” Kepler means this as a statement, not as a question.
“Yes, Sir,” Bob replies.
Kepler steps toward the door. He has a second thought and stops, turns back toward Bob. “What about baseball?”
Bob nods toward his missing arm. “I left my pitching arm in Afghanistan, doubt I'll be playing any ball.”
“The hell you say,” Kepler says. “There's always time for baseball.” Kepler rubs his chin, thinking. “You can coach.”
“How can I coach with just one arm?” he asks.
“Just like you're going to do everything else in your life with just one arm—the best way you can. It'll be good for you. In fact, I have just the team.” Kepler opens the door and steps out.
Bob follows. “Sir, I don't think...”
“Meet me out front after work. Eighteen-hundred hours. I'll take you to meet them,” Kepler says.
Bob can tell this isn’t merely a suggestion. “I don't know, sir, that's....”
“I have to get to an appointment. Just come check them out. These kids could use some help,” Kepler says over his shoulder as he walks swiftly away.
“Kids?” Bob asks.
Kepler is already halfway down the hall. He turns and hollers back at Bob. “Eighteen hundred.”
---
Baseball Field, Wright Patterson Air Force Base
During his lunch break, Bob takes a short drive to one of his favorite places on base. Stopping his truck in the empty parking lot, he sits inside, finishing a slice of pizza and studying the empty baseball field in front of him.
Bob finally reaches over, opens the glove box, and eyes a dirty, banged up baseball left there from before his deployment. He takes it out and climbs out of the pickup. He slowly walks through the gate near the bench and out onto the field, lightly tossing the ball in the air with his clumsy left hand. Bob hesitates at the first base line. An involuntary sigh escapes his lips. “What the hell,” he says, then crosses into the infield and heads to the pitcher’s mound.
When he gets to the mound, he hesitates once again. Standing in the grass at the edge of the mound. He slowly turns all the way around, taking it all in. First base, right field, second. He continues his slow turn, finally stopping when he’s facing the mound again. He gingerly steps into the dirt and up to the rubber.
Bob stands for a moment, relishing the feeling. He eyes home plate and starts into a slow windup, re-living the feeling he used to get when he fired his fastball over the plate. He grimaces when he accidentally moves what’s left of his right arm too far.
He stops and steps off the rubber. He glances around to make sure no one is watching, then looks back toward home. He steps up to the rubber again, but this time with his right foot. He turns to the left, bringing the ball up to his chest. He winds up, awkwardly, and throws hard with his left hand. The ball goes far wide, rattling off the backstop and bouncing back into infield. Bob shakes his head and walks over to pick up the ball.
Bob turns back toward the mound but stops two-thirds of the way to the rubber. He turns back toward the plate, exhales slowly, and goes into his windup again.
This time he throws much more gently, hoping for a bit of accuracy. The ball arcs slowly, but still well outside the strike zone... by a dozen feet.
Bob holds his left hand out and stares at it. His shoulders slump and he heads back to his truck, leaving the ball behind.
---
Bandits Baseball Field
Bob follows Major Kepler’s Volvo into the empty gravel parking lot. He parks next to the shoddy baseball field.
A rag-tag baseball team, in their late teens, plays on an equally unkempt field. The waist-high chain link fence surrounding the field is mostly rust, falling down in more than one place, and has completely collapsed in left center field. Overgrown weeds litter the outfield, and the “infield grass” isn't grass at all—just dirt.
“Just like back in the 'Stan,” Bob says to himself as he gets out of his truck. As he walks toward where Major Kepler is waiting, Bob watches the pitcher, a lanky black kid, try to throw a fastball to the batter.
The batter, a white kid with long, jet-black hair, has to dive for the dirt to keep from getting beaned.
“Damn it, JJ,” the batter screams as he picks himself up off the ground. “Don’t kill me with that thing, just put it over the plate.”
“Sorry, bro,” the pitcher replies.
Bob meets up with Major Kepler at the fence near first base. He checks out a stocky white kid sitting on the bench, punching his glove with his fist.
The kid on the bench lifts his head in greeting. “S'up?”
Bob nods back, then turns to watch the practice with Kepler.
Kepler points at the team on the field. “A fine looking crew,” he says.
Bob looks at Kepler, out at the team, then back at Kepler. “Them?”
Kepler smiles. “You probably know I’m a reservist. When I’m not on reserve duty, my regular job keeps me downtown. I’ve been watching these guys.”
“Watching them try to play baseball?” Bob asks.
Kepler waves his hand out at the team. “Watching them reach for their dreams. They’ve all got tough lives outside of this game.”
Kepler turns to the guy on the bench. “Rollie, right?”
The kid on the bench sneers back at them. “It's Pauli, Chief.”
Kepler nods. “Pauli Banes, right. This is Bob Williams. Your new coach.”
Bob shakes his head. “Maybe.”
Pauli points at Bob. “Coach? How he gonna' coach? He only got one arm.”
Kepler slaps Bob on the back and pushes him toward the bench. “Pauli, why don’t you introduce Bob around while I’m gone?”
Bob gives Kepler a questioning look.
“I have to run down to St. Vincent’s homeless shelter. Be back in an hour or so.“ Kepler walks away.
Bob steps toward Pauli, still sitting on the bench.
Pauli watches him warily, then speaks. “If you okay with the major, you okay with me. But I don't know how you gonna coach with just one arm.”
“I don't know, either,” Bob replies, then plops down on the bench beside Pauli. “Is this all the team?”
Pauli stares at him with disdain. “We got nine. All you need is nine. Ain't you never played baseball?”
Bob smiles. “Once or twice. I only see eight.”
“That’s cause I'm nine.” Pauli shakes his head. He points out at the field. “Okay, so that's JJ pitching. Only he ain't no pitcher. He's first base. But we ain't got no pitcher, so he's the pitcher.”
Bob says, “No pitcher. Got it.”
“Josh Santini is battin’. He's third base. Ramiro Sanchez is catcher. He’s been coaching us. He might be illegal, I ain't sure. But he can hit anything.”
“Is he gonna’ have a problem with me if I decide to coach?” Bob says.
“Nah. He’ll be cool,” Pauli says.
JJ finally gets one over the plate and Josh swings for the fence.
He connects with a pop.
The ball heads for the shortstop.
Pauli jumps to his feet. “You the man, Josh!”
The ball makes an erratic jump, almost getting past the short black kid playing shortstop. He bobbles it, finally gets a handle on it, and throws it to first. Hard. And a little wide. The first baseman, a very thin Asian kid, shies away from the speeding projectile, missing it. The ba
ll rattles into the rusty fence.
Pauli sits back down. “That’s Q at shortstop. He usually don't mess up like that. Shinji’s on first, but he's really our right fielder.”
Bob shakes his head. “Shinji should’ve had that.”
“He's pretty good at fly balls and grounders,” Pauli says. “I think the fast ones scare him a little.”
Ramiro, the stocky catcher, picks up a bat while Josh trots over to the empty third base.
Pauli continues the introductions. “Roger is left field. He's really fast. We call him the rocket. That's Saunders at center, and Mayday at left. Mayday’s our bat boy. He don't really got it all together, but he means good.”
JJ fires a fastball that’s just outside of the plate. Ramiro swings anyway and connects, sending the ball well over the head of the right fielder.
Pauli points at the field. “Told you. He can hit anything.”
“What about second base?” Bob asks.
“I'm second,” Pauli says.
“Then why aren't you out there?”
Pauli smiles. “I'm in time out.”
“Time out?” Bob asks. “There’s no time out in practice.”
Pauli smacks his fist into his glove again. “Anger management. My parole officer taught me. JJ almost hit me when I was batting. It was either kick his ass or take a few minutes. I'm good now.”
Pauli jumps up and jogs toward the broken gate in the fence.
Bob calls after him. “I'm glad you decided to take a few.”
The rest of the team shouts support as Pauli takes his place at second.
Bob stands and follows Pauli onto the field.
Pauli hollers to the team. “Hey! We got a new coach!“
The team whoops and hollers as one. They all head for the pitching mound, gathering around Bob. They stare at Bob's missing arm.
JJ starts to reach out
