by Clay Cormany
After about ten minutes of practice, Martha called everyone back to the third-base side of the diamond and then walked over to home plate where the Hornets’ coach waited. The two women exchanged line-up cards and moved to the coin toss, which the Hornets won; their coach chose to be the home team. Then both she and Martha looked around as if trying to locate someone who wasn’t there. Martha motioned for Jace to join them.
"Jace," Martha said, "this is Coach Jane Leonard. She and I may need your help with something."
"What’s that?" he said.
"Well," Martha continued, "I guess we don’t have an ump for this game."
Jace wiped some sweat off his forehead and stared at her blankly, unsure what the absence of an ump had to do with him.
"But this is just a practice game, isn’t it?" he asked. "Do we need an ump?"
"It would help," chimed in Coach Leonard. "We want this scrimmage to be as much like a real game as possible."
"So we’d like you to be the ump," Martha added.
"Me? I’ve never umped a softball game in my life," Jace said. "Ms. Leonard, couldn’t your assistant coach do this?"
"But I only have one assistant, and I’ll need her at third base when my team is at bat. Since your team has two assistants, we thought you might spare one for umping duties."
Jace turned to his mother and was about to volunteer Sylvia, but stopped. No doubt, Sylvia would make a better ump than he would. She knew softball and had played it for years. Just the same, there was something that made him want to shield her from the pressure that went with that job. More than that, he felt a strange desire to impress her. He wanted to show her that he could rise to this challenge.
"I’ll do it, Mom," he said. "But shouldn’t I wear a mask and chest protector?"
"We have some extra ones we can lend you," the Hornets’ coach said. She pointed at one of her players. "Dottie, take this young man over to the supply sack and help him get ready."
As Jace put on the gear, something occurred to him.
"Hey Mom, you know, if I’m going to be the ump, I can’t be wearing our team jersey now, can I? That wouldn’t be fair to the other team."
"It doesn’t matter, does it Coach Leonard?"
The Hornets' coach shook her head. "We know you’ll try to be fair."
It was worth a try, Jace thought. He pulled the mask over his face and then stepped behind the Hornets’ catcher.
"Okay, batter up!" he shouted, trying to sound official.
As Corey walked toward the plate, a wave of discomfort came over Jace. He worried that he might hurt his team by making a bad call. True, it was just a practice game, but if the Valkyries were going to develop a winning attitude, now was the time to start. And then there was the gear he wore. It was too small. The chest protector squeezed him like a waffle iron, and the face mask left his chin exposed. Inside his shirt, drops of perspiration trickled down his back.
The first pitch came to Corey. It went far out of the strike zone.
"Ball one!" Jace yelled.
"You don’t need to be so loud," Corey complained.
"Sorry," said Jace.
The next pitch appeared to catch the corner of the plate.
"Strike one!" he bellowed.
"That was outside," Corey complained, stepping away from the plate. "It was way outside."
"No, it wasn’t. Now get back in the batter’s box. Choke up on the bat a little and don’t crowd the plate."
"Hey, you can’t tell her how she should bat!" the Hornet catcher griped. "You’re the ump."
"Time out!" Jace shouted and stepped from behind the plate. Removing the ill-fitting mask, he took a few steps toward the pitching mound and then stopped, looking first at one team and then the other.
"Listen, girls, I’m not a professional umpire. Not even an amateur one. I’m going to do my best out here, but whatever I do, I’m not putting up with any more griping from either team. The next player who mouths off is out of the game. Do you understand?"
A dreary chorus of "yes" came from both sides.
"All right then," Jace said. "Let’s play ball."
On the next pitch, Corey grounded out to second base. Angela earned a walk on four pitches that were so far out of the strike zone that Jace could have called them balls even if he’d been blindfolded. After that, however, the Hornet pitcher seemed to find her groove. She got Susie to pop out to shortstop and then threw three pitches past Lauren, who swung vainly at each one.
"Nice swings, Lauren, you were close on –" Jace stopped himself even as Lauren’s face brightened. She needed encouragement, and Jace hated that he couldn’t give it to her.
Over the next two-and-a-half innings, the game moved along in relative peace. Jace tried to be consistent with his calls no matter who was at bat. Harder than calling balls and strikes was making calls at the bases. When a ball was hit, he did his best to follow the runner so he could see if she beat the throw to the bag. But there were two or three times when another player blocked his view, and he could only make an educated guess whether the runner was out or safe. He got a scowl from a Hornet player when he called her out on a close play at second, and some moans and groans from other girls when they disagreed with his rulings, but no outbursts, tirades, or threats against his life.
Then, in the top of the fourth inning, Tina was at the plate with two outs; Heather was on third and Phoebe was on second. On a two-two pitch, Tina cracked a solid line drive into right center field. Heather scored and as Phoebe approached third base, Sylvia waved her home. The Hornet center-fielder threw the ball to the shortstop, who then fired it toward home plate.
"Slide, Phoebe, slide!" yelled Sylvia.
Phoebe went to the ground, stretching her leg out toward home plate. At the same time, the catcher caught the incoming ball to the right of the plate and then wheeled around to make the tag. It was close, but Jace felt sure the catcher tagged Phoebe’s foot before it touched the bag.
"You’re out!" he shouted as he jerked his thumb upward.
There was a pause, and then a roar of protest erupted from the Valkyries’ bench.
"Hey, she dropped the ball! She dropped the ball!" some of them shouted as they pointed toward home plate. "See, it’s right there on the ground."
Jace didn’t want to look down, but he did anyway, and saw what he didn’t want to see. Apparently the impact of Phoebe’s foot on the catcher’s glove knocked the ball loose, and now it lay on the ground, a few feet from where Phoebe lay sprawled with the catcher almost on top of her.
"I’m safe, right Jace? I’m safe, I’m safe," she said. Her hat had fallen off, and her face glistened with sweat except where streaks of dust stuck to it.
Baseball had never been Jace’s favorite sport. He seldom watched it on television and hadn’t played it in years. But when he did watch games, he never saw an umpire reverse a call. It just didn’t happen, even if a call was obviously wrong.
"No, the runner is still out," Jace answered. "The ball was held long enough to make the out."
"You’re crazy, you dim-witted dill-weed!" Phoebe screamed, jumping to her feet. "The ball’s on the ground. I can’t be out."
Jace took off his mask and glared at his sister. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mother approaching, but that wasn’t going to stop him from what he was about to do.
"I warned you and your team about arguing my calls!" he almost roared. "You’re out of the game for good."
"What!" Phoebe yelled. "You can’t do that."
"Yes, he can," Martha said, coming up behind Phoebe. "He’s the ump, and he did warn you about making a fuss over his calls."
"But I was safe," Phoebe said, close to tears. "The catcher dropped the ball."
"Phoebe, you aren’t safe until the ump says you are. You’d better learn that now before we start playing games that count. Now pick up your hat and come back to the bench."
Phoebe plucked her hat off the ground, dusted it off, and headed back to the ben
ch, but not before giving him a sneer that would have made a pro-wrestler proud. Phoebe’s out ended the inning, but as Jace put his mask back on, he realized that the players on both sides seemed to be frozen in place. Everyone had been focused on the little family ruckus unfolding around home plate.
"All right!" Jace yelled. "What are we all standing around for? Let’s play ball."
Slowly the Valkyries took the field. Corey went to the pitching mound, Lauren took her place in front of him, and a Hornet batter came to the plate. Jace glanced over to where his mother stood with her arm around Phoebe, who lowered her head, perhaps to hide tears. He knew he was right to eject her — she had no business arguing his call even if it was wrong. But he wondered if it would dampen her enthusiasm for playing softball.
The rest of the game was mercifully uneventful. The Hornets won six-three, and as Jace took off his equipment, he resolved to never be an umpire again. He walked back to where the Valkyries were having their post-game meeting, and Sylvia came up to him.
"Rough day?" she said.
Jace sighed. "I’m never doing that again. I don’t care if they pay me."
"I know you feel bad about booting Phoebe out of the game, but it was a good lesson for the whole team."
"Do you think they’ll put capsaicin cream in my glove again — or rat poison in my water bottle?"
Sylvia gave a little laugh but then became serious. "Our girls need to understand that they can’t argue with the ump," she continued, "and they have to control their tempers even if he blows a call."
Jace grimaced. "Yeah, I did blow that call on Phoebe," he admitted. "She was safe."
Sylvia patted his shoulder. "It was just a scrimmage. It doesn’t count on our record, and anyway, you can be sure that the umps in the games we play will make mistakes, too."
Jace noticed Sylvia had a way of arching her eyebrows while she spoke. It gave her face a bright, eager look — an impression that was accented by her round, slightly sunburned cheeks.
"Don’t worry about this game," she continued. "And don’t worry about the team either. I think they know you were in a tough situation."
"Yeah," Jace said. "I thought coaching was tough. Umping is even worse."
"But look on the bright side. The game is over. You never have to be an ump again. Better still, you have a date with Stephanie tonight."
"That reminds me," Jace said. "I better gas up my car before I pick her up. I wouldn’t want us to get stranded somewhere."
Sylvia’s eyes sparkled mischievously. "Are you sure about that?"
Chapter Twelve
The face that stared back at Jace from the bathroom mirror appeared far calmer than he felt. Ripples of anxiety swirled around his stomach, and his hands felt cold and clammy as he splashed cologne into them. The cologne went onto his face in a series of quick little smacks. Next came the breath spray — two squirts, a brief pause, and then a third just to be safe.
After pressing a stray piece of hair back into place, Jace went into his mother’s room and studied himself in the full-length mirror beside her dresser. What he saw satisfied him —more or less. His navy blue shirt went well with his gray slacks and black leather belt. His loafers looked scuffed-up even with the shoe polish he applied after the practice game, but with any luck Stephanie wouldn’t see his feet that much. He checked his shoulders for dandruff, his pants for loose threads, and his fly to make sure it was shut. He pulled out his wallet and saw the ballet tickets were there along with what he hoped was enough cash for dinner. Then he bounded down the stairs, feeling as ready as he ever could be for this date with Stephanie.
Jace opened the front door and paused. He thought about leaving a note for his mother, who was at the grocery with Phoebe, but decided against it. She already knew his plans tonight. His eyes went to his watch. It was five-forty. That gave him plenty of time to pick up Stephanie, maybe meet her folks, and make it to Marchetti's for their six-thirty reservation. The dinner was Sylvia’s idea.
"Stephanie loves Italian food," she said. "So take her to Marchetti's before the ballet." Jace agreed even though he was short on money after buying the car battery.
Locking the door behind him, Jace went to his gassed-up, cleaned-out car and settled behind the steering wheel, inhaling the lemon-scented air freshener he sprayed throughout the vehicle a half-hour ago. He put his key into the ignition and turned it as he put his foot on the accelerator — but nothing happened. Again he turned the key and then a third time, but the engine remained as silent as a gravestone. Desperation gripped Jace like a python crushing its prey. Not that there was any mystery why his car wouldn’t start. It was the battery — that crummy, cheap discount battery had picked the worst of all possible times to die. Jace clutched the steering wheel, trying to bring his panic under control and come up with a solution at the same time.
Dashing back to the house, Jace first thought of waiting for his mother and then borrowing her car. But there was no way to know how long she would take at the grocery or whether she might stop somewhere else before coming home. And since she didn’t carry a cell phone, he couldn’t let her know of his crisis. That left only one hope.
Jace picked up the phone in the den and dialed a number that he knew by heart. A woman answered.
"Hello, Mrs. Macklin," said Jace. "Is Stick there?"
"Yes, but he’s in the shower," said Stick’s mother. "Can he call you when he gets out?"
"I’m sorry, but I need to talk with him now. It’s an emergency."
There was a moment of silence, and Jace suspected Mrs. Macklin didn’t believe there was an emergency. But in the end, she said, "Okay, I’ll get him."
Another agonizing minute passed before Stick’s voice came over the line.
"What’s the problem, dude?"
"Stick, is there any way you can lend me your car tonight? I need it for my date with Stephanie."
"What’s wrong with yours?"
"The battery's dead."
"The battery? I thought you took care of it."
"So did I. That cheap-o battery I bought worked fine for the last week. It even worked fine an hour ago when I went to get gas, but now it’s dead and I’m supposed to pick up Stephanie by six."
"Murphy’s Law strikes again," said Stick with a little chuckle.
The comment didn’t help, but the hint of humor in Stick’s voice gave Jace’s spirits a lift.
"So can I borrow your car?" asked Jace, trying not to sound too helpless.
"It’s not very clean."
"Doesn’t matter. I’ll take it anyway."
"It’s yours if you come and get it."
"Can’t you drive it to my house and then let me drop you off before I pick up Stephanie?"
"Nope, as soon as I’m done with my shower, I have to babysit my nephew while my parents and my sister go to some banquet."
"Just bring your nephew with you, and I’ll drive you both back to your house."
"Can’t do that," said Stick, sounding frustrated. "The kid’s seven months, and I don’t have a baby seat."
Jace didn’t have time to argue. "All right then," he answered with resignation. "I’ll run over to your house and get your car there."
"You can do it," said Stick. "Your house is only about two miles from mine. Just think of it as the start of your cross-country training for next season."
"See you in fifteen minutes — or less," said Jace.
"Okay," said Stick with another chuckle. "Run like Carson is chasing you."
Chapter Thirteen
Wearing slacks instead of shorts would make it tough to reach Stick’s house quickly; running in loafers would make it impossible. His cross-country shoes would give him the speed he needed but he couldn’t wear them to Marchetti's. There was only one thing to do — wear the cross-country shoes while running and then switch to the loafers once he got to Stick’s. Jace thought about using his school backpack to carry the loafers, but realized his mother had borrowed it to haul library books. He’d
just have to lug them.
With his running shoes laced up and the loafers under his arm, Jace bolted downstairs and out the door, taking just a few seconds to lock it before starting his dash toward the Macklin residence. Once on the street, he found it easier to carry one shoe in each hand. He passed porch-sitters and Frisbee-throwers, people mowing lawns and tending gardens, and little kids splashing about in inflatable swimming pools. Some teenage boys who were shooting hoops pointed at him and laughed, and a man trimming his hedges shouted, "Try carrying weights next time!" Jace ignored him. Better to appear ridiculous to strangers than to miss his date with Stephanie.
Jace kept a fast, steady pace and was lucky enough to get a "walk sign" at the one traffic light that stood between his home and Stick’s. A barking dog startled him at one point, and he had to navigate around skateboards, tricycles, and toys left on the sidewalk. With Stick’s house less than one hundred yards away, Jace veered to avoid falling water from a lawn sprinkler. Checking his shirt afterward, he felt dampness — not from the sprinkler but from perspiration. He reached up with his forearm and tapped his hair. It, too, was sticky with sweat. He started to worry about his appearance, but then refocused on taking the last few strides to Stick’s doorstep.
Jace never valued his friendship with Stick more than he did when he trotted up the driveway to the Macklin home. There stood Stick clad in a bathrobe. The passenger side door of his car was open, and he was sweeping off the seat with a whisk broom. A few feet away, his tow-headed little nephew swayed back and forth in a baby swing. Stick frowned when Jace came up next to him.
"Man, you look like a sweaty shoe salesman. Go upstairs and towel off while I finish cleaning this thing out."
Jace dropped the loafers and headed into the Macklin home. He had been there often enough to know where almost everything was. Once in the bathroom, he found a clean towel and wiped off his face. Hot air from a dryer followed by several strokes of a brush brought his hair almost back to the way it looked before his car crisis. He took off his shirt and dabbed the towel on any wet spot that he saw. When he re-buttoned his shirt, he could still see sweat on it. There was nothing to do but hope it dried before he saw Stephanie.
