Fast-Pitch Love

by Clay Cormany

  Sylvia scowled and she pressed her lips together before speaking. "It’s the umpire’s job to decide if it’s fair or not. My job and yours is to stand up for our team."

  "But not at any cost," Jace retorted. "There’s more to this game than winning and losing."

  "Don’t you think I know that?" Sylvia shot back. "I’ve been playing softball a lot longer than you."

  "All the more reason for you to understand what I’m saying," persisted Jace, even though he could see from Sylvia’s expression that he wasn’t getting through.

  "We’ve come so far with these girls," Sylvia said, her tone softening. "Don’t let their season end so soon. And think about what the Firebirds did to Tina."

  "That was just one player, not the whole team."

  "But that’s the way they are." Sylvia’s voice began to rise again. "They’ll do almost anything to win."

  "But we don’t have to be that way," Jace protested. "If it’s wrong for them to take the game so seriously, it’s wrong for us, too."

  Impatience began to take hold of both players and fans. To break the monotony of waiting, some of the girls took a water break or visited with family. At the same time, cries of "come on" and "hurry up" came from people on both sides. Then the umpire spoke.

  "I need a decision from you, coach," he said, without indicating whether he meant Jace or Sylvia.

  Jace looked into Sylvia’s face — beautiful, defiant, and pleading all at once — and then spoke. "We won’t protest the last hitter’s bat."

  "Then the homerun stands, and the game is over," the umpire intoned. "Firebirds ten. Valkyries nine."

  Cheers and groans arose from opposite sides of the diamond, while Sylvia looked ready to explode.

  "You traitor!" she cried, grabbing his jersey and scrunching a handful of the material under his chin for a few seconds before letting it go. "Next year, why don’t you be an umpire instead of a coach? Better still, why don’t you volunteer to coach for the Firebirds? I’m sure they’d love to have you."

  Sylvia went over to Tina, who sat bent over on the bench with a damp towel on her back. "Come on, sis. Let’s get out of here." When Tina joined her, Sylvia stomped away but not before giving Jace a stare that made the steamy summer day seem like a dark winter night.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  To Jace, the walk back to the parking lot seemed longer than usual and, even with Stick striding beside him, a bit lonely. A few minutes before, he said good-bye to the girls on his team and sent them off without a team meeting. After all that happened both on and off the field since the season began, there was no longer any reason to meet.

  "Thanks for coming, Stick," Jace said.

  Stick shrugged. "No problem. I just wish you’d won."

  "Me, too." Jace stopped, took a drink from his water bottle, and looked at the diamond where the game had been played. He almost expected to see scorched grass from the intensity of the just-completed contest — or from the scathing words Sylvia fired at him before stomping away.

  "Do you think I was right not to protest that kid’s bat?" he asked.

  "Yeah. No one on your team seemed mad except ..."

  "Except Sylvia."

  "Yeah, but so what? It’s Stephanie that you’re after, isn’t it? Or is it Sylvia now?"

  Jace didn’t say anything. In his mind, he kicked himself for not asking Sylvia out sooner. She had wanted to go to the zoo with him. He could just as easily have taken her to the carnival when Stephanie went with Carson. Now Sylvia likely would never speak to him again. And when Carson got back in town, Stephanie might decide to stay with him after all, leaving Jace with nothing.

  He started walking again with Stick but stopped when he heard his name called.

  "Jace, wait up! We have something for you." The words came from Denise, who ran toward him, followed by five or six other Valkyries.

  "What’s up, girls? I thought you were all going home."

  "We are, but we wanted to give this to you first," said Denise. She thrust out a white envelope, which Jace took and opened. Inside was a card that said, "You’re a hit with us." Underneath the words was a baseball player swinging a bat. Jace opened the card and saw there were two five-dollar gift certificates to Bostwick’s ice cream shop. There was also a message penned above the signatures of every girl on the team.

  Dear Jace and Sylvia,

  Thanks for a great season. You are the best coaches in the world. Come back next year and coach us again.

  Jace held up the certificates. "Thanks, girls. This is great. I love Bostwick’s ice cream."

  "One of those is for Sylvia," Heather said. "Can you give it to her?"

  Jace dropped his head. "I’ll try. But maybe you saw how angry she was with me at the end of the game."

  "Aw, she’ll forgive you," said Lauren.

  "Just like we did," added Heather with a laugh.

  "All right then, I’ll make sure she gets it," said Jace.

  The girls cheered and some headed off toward the pool or into the parking lot to meet their parents. But one lingered.

  "Thanks for helping me, Jace," said Lauren. She put her arms around his back and squeezed him hard.

  "You’re a good player," Jace said. "You’ll be even better next year, no matter who your coach is."

  Lauren let go of Jace and smiled up at him. "I hope it’s you."

  After Lauren ran off, a wild thought entered Jace’s mind — wild enough to make him shake his head and laugh at the same time.

  "What’s the joke?" asked Stick.

  "Nothing. I just had a crazy idea."

  "You’re going to propose to Stephanie and then elope to Vegas?"

  Jace lifted his eyebrows at that suggestion, but shook his head. "Something even crazier."

  "What then?"

  "I think I might like to coach this team again next year."

  "You’re not serious," Stick said, almost sputtering. "I thought you became a coach just so you could meet Stephanie."

  "Yeah, that’s the way it started off, but …I don’t know, it became something more than that after a while, like a calling of some sort. And check this out. The girls even want me back." He showed the card to Stick, who glanced at the message inside.

  "That’s cool, but won’t some of these kids be too old to play on this team next year?"

  "A few will be, but most of them will still be in this league."

  Stick chuckled as they walked onto the concrete of the parking lot. "I guess you’ll kind of be like the guy Tom Hanks played in that movie about a women's baseball team."

  "Hardly. There’re lots of older guys who coach girls' softball. Hey, my car’s just up ahead. Phoebe’s gone with Nancy. Why don’t we drive over to –?"

  Jace halted in mid-sentence, his attention caught by two large figures that loomed behind his car. Stick saw them, too.

  "What are those animals doing here?"

  Before Jace could say anything, Carson and Ned moved toward them like wolves descending on a herd of sheep. "Hey guys, I’m afraid you missed the game," Stick chirped in mock cheerfulness. "But it was a great one and –"

  "Shut your pie hole, Macklin!" Carson snapped as he fixed his eyes on Jace. He took a few steps in Jace’s direction and then stopped. An arm like a sledge hammer rose from his side, and an accusing finger jumped out from his hand like a switchblade.

  "You yellow-bellied scum bag, you’ve been seeing Stephanie behind my back, haven’t you?" The words came slowly out of Carson, as if the anger behind them caused him pain.

  "We’ve had a few dates. What of it?"

  "What of it?" Carson said through clenched teeth. "Stephanie’s mine, that’s ‘what of it,' and you're bugging her and trying to steal her from me."

  "I’m not bugging her," Jace retorted. "I’ve taken her out, but nobody twisted her arm to make her go. She went with me because she wanted to. As for ‘stealing’ her from you, she doesn’t belong to you, so how could I steal something that isn’t yours?"

>   Jace did not know where his courage — or was it stupidity? — came from. Quills of fear poked at his stomach, but he ignored them. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know this showdown was coming. It had to happen somewhere, sometime. So it might as well be here and now.

  At first, Carson seemed a little surprised by Jace’s pluck, but he recovered quickly.

  "I’m going to smash you to pieces right here," he said, thrusting out his massive arms and grabbing Jace’s jersey just below the neck.

  "Let go of me, you big ape!" Jace shouted. He lurched backward and pushed at Carson’s arms at the same time, dislodging one of them while the other held fast and dug into the flesh beneath the jersey. Carson’s free hand began to form into a fist. As Jace braced for the blow that seemed inevitable, Stick spoke up.

  "I don’t think you better fight in front of this crowd."

  The two adversaries jerked their heads to the side at the same time and looked around. Jace saw that Stick exaggerated when he used the word "crowd." Still, their raised voices had apparently been heard by others, and several people, including one or two adults, now watched them.

  Carson’s fist began to unclench and his other hand released its grip on Jace’s shirt. His contorted features expressed rage and hatred toward Jace as well as frustration at not being able to smash him on the spot. Again the arm came up, and a finger darted out and thumped into Jace’s chest.

  "The next time I see you, I’m going to beat the snot out of you, you little wimp." Carson spoke in a voice just above a whisper. "You can’t hide from me forever."

  Jace stepped toward the football player. The thought of grabbing his shirt, as Carson did to him, passed through his mind, but he dismissed it. He didn’t have to do that to get his message across.

  "You want a piece of me, Carson? You want a piece of me, you sorry excuse for a human being?" Jace moved his face to within a few inches of Carson’s and matched his rival’s hate-filled expression with a defiant one of his own.

  "You bet I do," the big lineman snarled back.

  "Then, I’ll give you that chance. I’ll fight you at a time and place where we can have it out without other people becoming involved."

  Stick looked shocked. "Jace, you don’t want to –"

  "How about Sunday morning at the high school football field?" Carson volunteered. "Eight o’clock, maybe?" The anger receded from both his voice and face, replaced by an eagerness like that of a kid who gets a birthday gift he didn’t expect.

  "Okay, and let’s fight behind the storage house. The shadows will make it hard for us to be seen."

  "That’ll work for me," said Carson with an evil grin. "Mind if I bring Ned here along with me?" He jerked a thumb at his friend who hadn’t said a word throughout the entire confrontation.

  "Yeah, he can come if he wants," Jace replied, "as long as Stick can come, too."

  "Sure, why not?" Carson cast a glance at Stick and sneered. "You’ll need someone to carry your body home once I’m finished with you."

  "Oh, there is one condition for this fight," Jace added.

  Suspicion clouded Carson’s face. "Oh, I see. You want me to just use one hand when I fight you or maybe tie my shoelaces together."

  "No, nothing like that. You’ll be free to fight me any way you want."

  "All right, what’s this condition?"

  Jace took a deep breath and made eye-contact with Stick, who looked worried but also puzzled. He wet his lips and then spoke. "The free-for-all at the football field will be the second part of our fight. The first part will be a foot race between you and me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There’s a track that runs around the football field, right? Before we fight, you’ll first have to race against me on the track."

  "That’s stupid. You’re a cross-country runner. I can’t run faster than you. You’re just trying to worm your way out of this."

  Jace took another deep breath. "I didn’t say you had to beat me. I just said you had to race me."

  Now Carson looked as puzzled as Stick. Even Ned, whose expression seldom changed, looked bewildered.

  "What are you getting at?" Carson demanded.

  "You think cross-country is such a wimpy sport, right? If it is, it shouldn’t be any problem for a big, tough football hero like you to run as far as a cross-country runner, even if you don’t go as fast."

  "So all you want is for me to run two miles like you cross-country guys do, and then I can kick your butt?"

  "Three miles — actually a little more than three miles is what we weenies on the cross-country team usually run."

  Ned and Carson exchanged glances, and Carson shook his head. "Not three," he said, "but I’ll do two."

  "That’s nothing," Jace said and then pointed at his friend. "Why, Stick here could run that far in his sleep."

  Stick grinned nervously but was wise enough not to say anything.

  "Tell you what, we’ll do just two," Jace continued. "And you don’t need to beat me. Just finish no more than three minutes after I finish. If you do, we’ll move on to the boxing match. If you don’t, then the boxing match is off."

  "Make it four minutes and you’re on," said Carson.

  Jace did some quick calculations in his head. In competition, he could keep a five-thirty pace for the first half of a five kilometer race. So he felt pretty sure he could do two miles in about eleven minutes. If so, Carson would have to cover the distance in fifteen minutes or less. Maybe he couldn’t do it, but even if he did, he might be too worn out to do much damage in the fistfight that followed. The more he thought it over, the more Jace realized there were too many "ifs" for his liking, but he couldn’t back out now. He’d have to take the risk.

  "Okay, we’ll make it four minutes," Jace agreed. "But there’s one more thing."

  "I thought you said you had only one condition."

  "There is just one condition for the fight, and that is to race on the track first. But if you lose that race, if you finish more than four minutes after I do, you must let Stephanie date whoever she wants to."

  "And if I win the race and the fight?"

  Jace swallowed before he spoke and said a quick prayer.

  "Then, not only will I never ask Stephanie out again, I won’t even speak to her."

  "You’re on," said Carson. "You can bet Ned and I will bring a stopwatch to make sure you don’t cheat on your running time."

  "You can bet we’ll have one, too," said Stick, "so you can’t lie about your time either."

  "Suit yourself," Carson said. "Just don't be late. Otherwise, I’ll come and get you myself."

  "We’ll be there," snapped Jace. "I just hope you and Sasquatch here don’t get lost going to the stadium."

  While the two hulks walked away, Jace heard Ned jabbering about how Carson was going to "murder Jace" and "tear his arms off." He figured Ned was exaggerating — or at least hoped he was.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Jace woke up a few minutes before seven on Sunday morning. He threw on white shorts, a gray t-shirt, and his newest running shoes before heading downstairs for a light breakfast. Though he wasn’t hungry, experience told him that he needed something in his stomach before this morning’s contest. He dropped a piece of bread into the toaster and sighed. Contest? Who was he kidding? It wasn’t as if he and Carson would be playing Bingo against each other. While he waited for the toast to pop up, he let his mind chew on what might happen over the next hour or so.

  The Ridgeview High stadium with its football field and surrounding track provided a good location for the "contest," and eight a.m. was a good time for it. There would be few people around at that hour, but anyone who did see them could hardly be surprised at the sight of two teenage boys doing some early-morning running. Nobody would suspect that the boys planned to pummel each other after their run. Of course, if Jace’s plan worked, there would be no pummeling. Carson would not finish the two miles within four minutes of Jace’s time and would forfeit the fight — no more
threats and no more intimidation. The big clod could just take one of his precious football scholarships and pursue his gridiron dreams at some college far away from Ridgeview.

  Jace pulled out his toast and put it on a dish. Then he poured a glass of orange juice and settled himself at the kitchen table, where he allowed a more frightening possibility to enter his mind: suppose Carson did finish the race in time and wasn’t exhausted. Two miles wasn’t that far, and a seven-thirty pace wasn’t that fast. It would be a breeze for any cross-country runner worth his salt, more of a challenge for a big hulking football player — but not an impossibility. If a fight did occur, what would happen? Even a worn-out Carson would be dangerous. The guy stood five inches taller than Jace and weighed nearly seventy pounds more. Granted, Jace was probably quicker than Carson, but so what? He couldn’t stay away from him forever, and he had no intention of running. His enemy just had to land one good punch or grab hold of him one time, and it would be over.

  At seven-twenty, Stick’s car pulled into the driveway. Jace opened the front door just long enough to wave an acknowledging hand at his friend and then walked briskly into the kitchen. After grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator, he scratched "Hanging out with Stick" on the notepad attached to its door. He paused when he heard footsteps upstairs. It was probably his mother getting ready to go into work for a few hours. The doctors cleared her to return to her job several days ago. They also said she could coach that last game against the Firebirds, but she didn't have time with all the work that had piled up during her recovery. If she had been there, maybe he wouldn't have fought with Sylvia then or be fighting Carson now.

  Stick gunned his engine. Jace zipped up his cross-country warm-up jacket and headed outside.

  "All ready to rumble, Rocky?" Stick asked as Jace sat down and slammed the car door.

  "Not funny," Jace shot back. "And anyway, you know what my plan is."

  "Yeah, you’re counting on King Kong keeling over before he can run two miles," Stick said, easing out of the driveway. "Maybe it’ll work, but if it doesn’t, I hope you’ve notified your next of kin."