Fast-Pitch Love

by Clay Cormany

  Jace nodded. "That’ll be the second mess I clean up today, won’t it?"

  Chapter Forty-five

  The lights at Ridgeview High Stadium seemed to be shining especially bright for the Friday evening homecoming game against Westport. The people flocking to the stadium added to the brightness with a cheerful enthusiasm that seemed contagious. Their hometown Rams, after a close loss in their first game, had won every game since, giving rise to hopes for a conference championship and a trip to the state playoffs.

  Jace felt in-tune with the enthusiasm as he handed his ticket to a parent volunteer and walked through the stadium gates. The new school year had been good to him so far. First came the letter from Principal Wyatt, naming him "Senior Student of the Month" for September. The letter cited his "rescue of a fellow student during the summer" as one of the reasons for receiving that honor. Then came the article in the Ram Courier. It included his senior picture and described his actions on that Sunday morning even more vividly than Alec Flynn did in his Ridgeview News piece. The Courier article seemed to bring an afterglow, which hovered over Jace wherever he went. Girls he didn’t know smiled at him; teachers who’d never had him as a student complimented him, and freshmen gawked at him as if he were a Hollywood celebrity. Finally, there was the Rohr Invitational Cross-country Meet, where his feet took wing. He crossed the finish line in twelfth place, ahead of Stick, and his time of seventeen fifty-eight was thirty-four seconds faster than his previous best.

  Of course, Jace knew it wouldn’t last. In a few days, a new Student of the Month from the senior class would be named, the Ram Courier would be singing praises to new heroes, and his next cross-country meet would probably find him farther behind the pacesetters. Smiling girls, admiring teachers, and impressionable freshmen would all find new things to hold their interest. He would again be Jace Waldron, an ordinary student with an ordinary life. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Because the best thing about that extraordinary summer was right next to him holding his hand.

  "Let’s get something to drink before we get our seats," Sylvia suggested.

  "I’m not that thirsty, but I’ll get you something if you like."

  "A diet cola would be nice."

  "No problem."

  While they wove their way toward the concession stand, Jace scanned the football field. The Ram players went through their warm-up drills, while their coaches shouted instructions to them. Not far away, the Ridgeview High Band started to assemble in preparation for the pre-game show and National Anthem. And there, at one end of the players’ bench, sat Carson in his wheelchair with a blanket over his legs. He was almost motionless as he watched his teammates prepare for battle, and Jace wondered what went through Carson’s head. Word was that he had made good progress with his therapy, might even be out of the wheelchair and on crutches by year’s end. Even if that were true, his career as a football player was gone forever. Now he was a spectator to a sport in which he once reigned supreme, a fallen monarch gazing over a kingdom he could never reclaim. But maybe there was hope for Carson, maybe even right behind him. That’s where Stephanie stood, holding the handles of his wheelchair.

  Gazing toward the bleachers, Jace noticed the wide variety of people awaiting the kick-off. In the front row, a long line of students — mostly girls eagerly responded to the cheerleaders and their routines. In the rows behind them, other students yelled back and forth, teasing one another and finding other ways to be boisterous. A few even tried to make calls with their cell phones despite the noise.

  Jace saw Stick and his date snuggled together in about the fourth or fifth row, reading a game program. The girl was a pretty blonde named Jenny, and tonight was Stick’s second date with her; Jace hoped it went better than the first. On that occasion — a double date with Sylvia and him at Marchetti’s Stick knocked a large, gooey meatball into Jenny’s lap. His poor friend’s face turned as red as the tomato sauce that stained the girl’s skirt. But now, with his arm around Jenny’s shoulders, Stick looked like a forgiven man.

  When they approached the concession stand, Sylvia stopped to talk with a girl she knew from her neighborhood. "I’ll meet you at the front corner of the bleachers," Jace said to her, as he took his place in line.

  Four minutes later, with the diet pop in hand, Jace was walking back to the bleachers when he felt something hit the back of his leg. Gazing down, he saw a scuffed-up softball that seemingly came out of nowhere.

  "Little help, please," someone cried out.

  He looked up and there in front of him stood a pony-tailed girl of about ten or eleven wearing faded blue-jeans, a green windbreaker, and a beat-up baseball cap. On her left hand was an oversized fielder's glove that she held open, beckoning for him to return the softball. Jace reached down and plucked it off the ground.

  "Don’t you know softball season is over?" he asked, flipping the ball back to her.

  "So what?" the kid answered as she snatched it out of the air. "I’d play all the time if I could."

  "You would? Then maybe you can be on my team next year."

  "You have a softball team?" She sounded skeptical.

  "You bet."

  "A girls' softball team?"

  "Yep. I’m one of the coaches."

  A frown clouded the girl’s face. "I don’t believe you."

  "Sure, I am. Just ask…"

  "Hurry up with the ball!" a second girl who was farther away shouted.

  And with that the pony-tailed kid scampered off to join her friend and resume the game of catch that was interrupted when their overthrown ball hit Jace’s leg.

  Jace walked over to the bleachers where Sylvia waited and handed the can of pop to her.

  "What was that all about?" asked Sylvia, who witnessed his conversation from a distance.

  "I told that kid I coached girls' softball, but she didn’t believe me," he answered.

  "She’ll get quite a surprise next year if she plays in our league, won’t she?"

  "Yeah, girls' softball is just full of surprises."

  "I know," she said. "Some are crazy…" She put her arm around his waist and looked at him with her blue eyes … "and some are almost too good to be true."

  "So where do you want to sit?" he asked.

  She pointed to the highest row of the bleachers where every seat was empty.

  "Way up there? We’ll be all by ourselves."

  "That’s the whole idea."

  He took her hand and together they started their climb to the top.

  Acknowledgements

  Many good people deserve recognition for insights and information that helped make Fast-Pitch Love a better book than it otherwise would have been. I want to thank Michael L. Wilson for his summer of two thousand six fiction-writing class that put this novel on the road to publication. My classmates Steve Kern, Shawn Dickerson, Tanja Fazzari, and Max Godfrey offered valuable comments about dialogue, character development, and plot structure. They and I continue to meet as a critique group, and I appreciate their ongoing encouragement and advice.

  I am grateful to Coach Jack Brandenburg and his girls' softball team for allowing me to observe their games and practices — and even serve as a first base coach for one inning. My understanding of softball increased immeasurably from this experience. Other worthwhile insights into the game came from veteran softball players Meghan Coleman, Allison Kern, and Kate Gordon.

  My gratitude also goes to Dr. Jeff Gordon, who provided guidance on the hospital and medical procedures that occur in the story, and to Bill Mason, partner at Bricker & Eckler, who gave similar guidance on police procedures. Justin Grubb, Jake Szabo, Rachel Cormany Yensel, and Sarah Princehorn deserve thanks for updating me on the habits, fashions, and room furnishings of high school students.

  Diane Kinser, my colleague at Columbus State, made some sound recommendations for improving the story in its latter stages. So, too, did my good friends from Otterbein University, Kathy Krendl and Richard Gilbert. Becky Princehorn, my devoted wife, also ma
de several improvements in the final draft. Even before that, she demonstrated extraordinary patience in putting up with a husband who seemed lost in another world whenever he sat in front of his computer.

  ***

  Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?

  Words and Music by John Sebastian

  Copyright (c) 1965, 1966 by Alley Music Corp. and Trio Music Company

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights for Trio Music Company Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

  Used by Permission

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

  About the Author

  Before writing Fast-Pitch Love, Clay Cormany spent over 20 years as a writer and editor for the Ohio Department of Education. His creative work has appeared in the Columbus Dispatch and Spring Street, Columbus State Community College's literary magazine. He has also edited numerous books, including a three-volume biography of Christopher Columbus and A Death Prolonged by Dr. Jeff Gordon, which received coverage in the New York Times and on PBS.

  Also from Astraea Press

  Chapter One

  Wanted: Youth Ages 14-18 Must be willing to work outdoors and enjoy camping. Room and board included.

  I rocked back on my heels and scanned the job board for any other possibles which might fit my age and desire category. No-ooope. Nothing else. According to this Job Corps office, no other employment possibilities existed on the planet or the state. No one in Utah wanted to hire a seventeen-year-old, soon-to-be senior, just for the summer, with no job skills or experience. I was not about to include my hideous six week stint as a shoe salesman for the local big box discount store as job experience on any application.

  My groan brought Conor to my side. He bumped my shoulder with his typical buddy body language. “Any luck?”

  I didn’t even turn. “Apparently no one wants to hire kids at the moment. How about you?”

  In my peripheral vision, I caught him shaking his head. “Yeah. Especially because I don’t have construction experience. I’m not a lifeguard, and I don’t have a welding license.” Conor motioned to the cards on the board.

  “You need a license to weld?” That was news to me.

  He shrugged. “According to that…” He jerked his thumb at another nearby wall. “…I would.”

  I felt like banging my head against the slotted wall in front of me. “I knew I should’ve signed up for that lifeguard class.” I turned to look at him. “Remind me next time not to listen to my mother. I could’ve squeezed it in.”

  “Like you would’ve given up your role in Oklahoma.”

  Conor grinned. That dimple, which always made the knees of half the girls at our high school go weak, appeared. I knew it had that effect, because apparently being his best friend, those girls at our school who felt moved by that dimple also felt the need to share their earth-shattering experiences with me. Like telling me would earn points with him? Good grief. Sigh. Of course, that dimple also made him look about three years older than his same-as-me seventeen. Wish my dimple did that. I swear, mine made me look about five years younger.

  He was right of course. Nothing would’ve dragged me off the stage last year, and I couldn’t have missed rehearsals to get to the class. So, I did the most mature thing I could think of — I stuck out my tongue.

  This made him laugh. His dark curls bounced with his body’s movement. They wouldn’t be around much longer because he hated the bushy look almost as much as I hated mine, and as soon as his curls were long enough that he could feel them move — snick! They’d be gone.

  “And so—” I tightened my jaw, “here we stand… thanks to my mom and her brilliant idea that we come to the Job Corps to find a job.” I wrinkled my nose. “Not only do half the people here scare me — and it smells in here — these are real full time jobs not just summer stuff for kids.”

  Conor leaned past me, and reached toward the board. “What’s this?” He pulled off the card I’d read earlier. “This sounds promising. Wanted: Ages 14-18. Must be willing to work outdoors and enjoy camping. Room and board included.” He nudged my arm. “We like the outdoors. And we like to camp. Well, you’re more picky than I am. But… you’ve got to admit, it sounds interesting.”

  I snatched the card away and pointed out the last sentence. “Room and board included? Conor, that means living some place. It doesn’t even say where, and can you see our parents agreeing to let the two of us go off somewhere where we’d be living all summer? Get real!”

  He grabbed my jacket sleeve and dragged me toward a job counselor’s desk. “It can’t hurt to get all the information before giving up.” He made a rude noise with his lips. “It sounds like to me that you don’t even really want to find a job.”

  He pushed me into the nearest seat, while I thought about pulling the chair he was about to sink into out from under him. Finally, he was started to get the real idea. Getting a full-time job was not how I really wanted to spend my summer.

  “Yeah, well, if you like camping so much you could’ve applied for one of those summer camp jobs your dad kept telling you about. Let’s see, now, what’s that saying your dad keeps on about? Oh yeah, ‘once a Blazer always a Blazer’.”

  He clapped the card on the desk, and gave the employment counselor a warm smile, but when he turned toward me, the smile faded while his eyes narrowed. “I’m not suicidal or certifiable. Blazers Boys’ camps are dangerous places, Benz. All those lack of brain cells and all that exploding testosterone? You’d be lucky to ever see me again alive.” His attention moved back to the counselor, his smile reappeared like the sun slipping out from behind a cloud. “So, tell us about this job.”

  ****

  I gripped the phone and punched the last button, still confused why I was making the call. Much to my surprise, instead of my parents digging in their heels with arguments like, “we couldn’t let our darling daughter leave us, we’d miss her too much!” or “are you kidding? There’s bears and snakes out in the woods, you might get hurt.” Their response was more like, “Hmm, working out in the woods would be great for you! Call and check it out.”

  Call and check it out. Setting my eyebrows low and glaring out at the world, I waited for the phone to connect. After just a half ring, a voice on the other end answered.

  “Norman Schlemmer.” Norman’s slightly nasal tenor voice — not to mention his name — brought to mind a dark-headed, narrow shouldered man, wearing black thick-framed glasses, while sitting hunched at his messy desk.

  “Uh, M-Mr. Sch-schlemmer.” I never did do well with calling people. “My name is Mercedes Bennion. I-I’m calling a-about the-uh—” I scanned the printout for the twentieth time since the job counselor gave it to me. “Youth Conservation Corps job that was listed with Job Corps?”

  I heard his chair squeak, and I pictured him leaning back on an ancient wooden chair. “Yes, it starts next week and goes for ten weeks. We’re looking for someone willing to commit for that long.”

  “I’m available, sir. I don’t have other plans this summer. “Blast it. No friends included me in water ski trips this year, no church rafting planned, no days at the local amusement park. All my usual summer activities seemed to have fizzled now that I was going to be a senior. Like everyone and everything I knew expected me to work! Sigh.

  “The teams will be living at Brighton Ski Lodge.”

  Ski lodge? I sat up straighter.

  “We’ll mostly be working in Big and Little Cottonwood Canyons.”

  Images of tall pines, steep granite walls, and the fast moving rivers which rushed through both canyons filled my mind. I loved Little Cottonwood. Dozens of family picnics, church overnights, and even youth group hikes had made me think of that canyon as mine. The idea of living at a ski resort for two and a half months tantalized my mind enough to make it buzz.

  “You still interested?”

  “Yes, sir.” Unbelievably, I actuall
y was.

  “Did they explain about the possible biology credit?”

  Biology credit? I sat forward in my seat as my interest rose from 2.0 on the Richter scale to 8.5. I only needed a half more science credit to graduate. It didn’t matter what kind. Did he really mean there might be a chance I wouldn’t have to face more of our sparkling (not!), fascinating (read: boring), near-retirement science department? I held my breath. Maybe I’d misheard.

  “We’ll be giving crews hands-on science opportunities throughout the summer, and we’ve got permission from the State School Board to give anyone who successfully finishes out the season a half-credit of biology, good at any school district in the state.”

  “No, sir, they didn’t mention it.” I wanted to punch the air with joy. It was a miracle, that’s what it was. A miracle!

  “You’ll need a good pair of hiking boots. Steel toed might be best.”

  They make boots with steel toes? Who knew?

  “They should be waterproofed. You’ll need a couple of long sleeved blue work shirts — those are our uniforms. Jeans. A warm sleeping bag, some good rain gear.”

  Good grief! I should’ve been writing this all down.

  He continued with the list a bit longer, then paused. “So, we’ll see you at Skyline High at eight on Monday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right then. Welcome to the Youth Conservation Corps, Mercedes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Schlemmer.”

  The line went dead, and I stared at the list hoping I hadn’t missed or forgotten something. Then it hit me. I’d done it! I had a job.

  I shouted for my mom, but not finding her home, I raced outside and jumped on my bike and began pedaling like a demon. Three blocks later, I leaped off my bike taking the time to drop the kickstand, because my dad would kill me if the racing bike I’d whined over for nearly a year was dropped, abandoned, on Conor’s lawn. Of course, when it fell over, I didn’t rush back to fix it.