Mudville

by Kurtis Scaletta

  “That nearly hit me!”

  “That was a strike, Ned,” says the umpire, “right in the zone.” That gets the whole St. James team laughing, and Ned turns red.

  “Throw that again, brat,” he says.

  Why not? I show one finger, then flash five twice, then one. I'm calling for the “eleven” pitch, a pitch a mite faster than even his regular fastball. Sturgis can't throw more than a few of those in a game, but this is a good time for it.

  Ned readies himself to swing, and the ball comes in with a zip and a bang. He's caught looking again. His jaw drops, and there's a smattering of applause from his teammates.

  “Strike two!” The umpire is getting into it now. I think he enjoys seeing Ned look foolish.

  “Now really bring it!” I shout at Sturgis. I wiggle my fingers, then flash five. Sturgis takes a quick breath, rears back, and fires. Ned takes a huge swing and turns himself around, just in time to see the junkball fall into my glove.

  The other St. James players are dying laughing as Ned slinks back to the dugout. The next batter wastes his chance because he's so amused. He swings, giggling, at the first pitch and grounds out to short. Steve tosses it to David for the out. The batter doesn't even run it out but just shakes his head, snickering, and goes to the dugout.

  “Come on, guys,” says the coach. “I want to see quality at bats.”

  The third batter is the little brother of the minor leaguer. I know that the scouts are following this kid, too. He's sup-posed to be a big deal.

  I signal for a fastball and put my glove low, and Sturgis delivers. The batter watches it go by.

  “Ball,” says the umpire.

  So the hot prospect isn't going to swing away. I signal for a fastball at the belt, and Sturgis fires. The batter watches it go by again.

  “Strike.”

  It's a good take, I know. He's timing Sturgis's pitches. He's seen two of them now. If we throw one more, he might nail it.

  I signal for a seven, to change the batter's timing, and put my glove just on the inside of the plate. Sturgis delivers. The batter watches it go by.

  “Ball.” I myself think it had the corner, but there's no point arguing about it. I signal for the exact same pitch but move my glove a little back over the plate. The batter watches it go by.

  “Strike.”

  I'm sweating. It's a good batter who can make you sweat before he even swings the bat. I signal for a fastball and put my glove off the plate, just to see if he'll chase. He doesn't. He has good eyes, and he has patience. I also notice he's the only one not laughing at us. He's taking us seriously. I have to like the guy.

  I also have to get him out, though. I signal for a changeup, flashing nine fingers. I wonder if Sturgis can slow it down just a smidgen.

  He delivers, and the batter swings. There's a loud, hollow thunk as the aluminum bat nails the ball, and it sails deep into the outfield. Shannon catches it five or six feet shy of the warning track. It was a good piece of hitting, but he was a little bit in front of the pitch.

  “Dumb luck,” says the hitter on deck.

  “It was a good pitch,” the hot prospect tells him.

  A 0 appears on the scoreboard below the 1. We've escaped the first inning without a base runner.

  The fourth batter comes to the plate. He's the biggest guy on their team. I bet he plays football in the fall.

  “I'll put an end to this nonsense,” he says. He wags the bat eagerly, waiting for the fastball. He looks like he'll hit the ball into next week if we let him.

  I have Sturgis throw nothing but fastballs. It's all about where I put my glove: I get the bruiser to swing over an inside pitch, then take one at the knees, then chase a pitch out of the zone. He swings his bat into the ground in annoyance.

  “Better luck next time,” I say casually, hoping he won't get another chance to bat.

  The fifth batter lays a bunt toward third base. Miggy mishandles it, and the batter reaches first by a mile. I shout at Miggy not to even throw, worried he'll hurl the ball into right field.

  Miggy is mad at himself and moves in a bit, daring the next batter to bunt. It leaves a big hole behind the base, but I'm not worried. Steve edges over, and he has good range. I am worried about Kazuo at second base, though. Does he know what to do if the ball comes to him? Does he know what to do if the ball goes to Steve? Most importantly, will he throw to the right base either way?

  The sixth batter steps to the plate. He gives me a familiar nod, and I bet that he's the catcher. We tend to acknowledge one another as brothers-in-arms.

  I signal for a fast pitch around the hands, and Sturgis de-livers. The batter swings at it and bounces the ball toward Steve. I nearly close my eyes but force myself to watch: Steve fields the ball on the second hop and shovels it to second base without even looking.

  Unbelievably, Kazuo is there, taking the ball, scraping the bag with his toe, turning a pivot that would make ballet dancers envious, and makes a perfect throw to David to complete the double play. It might as well be Tinker to Evers to Chance. It's so beautiful I want to cry.

  A 0 appears on the scoreboard for the second inning.

  We get into trouble in the third inning.

  The seventh batter hits a lazy fly ball to left field. It should be an easy out, but we have a ten-year-old in left field. It goes over his head and bounces off the wall. Shannon runs it down and gets it back to the infield, but the runner reaches third base.

  Do we concede the run and settle for a tie or go for the win? I decide to play for the win and move the infield in to prevent a sacrifice bunt.

  Sturgis strikes out the next batter, and we have a chance.

  I want to set up the double play, so I signal for an outside pitch when the next batter comes up to bat. Sturgis glowers at me and shakes me off.

  I call time and go out to the mound.

  “Are you going to make me walk him?” he asks.

  “We need to set up the double play,” I explain. “Other-wise, a ground ball will score the runner from third.”

  “I hate this. I never want to put anyone on base.”

  “I understand that, but sometimes you have to play the percentages.”

  “It's their number nine hitter,” he reminds me. “It's probably a pitcher.”

  “We don't know that. Since they don't have to play the field, they could have put anyone in that slot.”

  He sighs and consents to the intentional walk. The batter goes to first base.

  Ned comes back to the plate with a smirk.

  “This will be sweet,” he says, taking a few practice swings.

  I know it won't be easy the second time through the lineup. They've seen Sturgis's stuff and will take better swings this time.

  I signal for a fastball. Sturgis rears back and nails Ned in the stomach. Ned drops to the ground in pain.

  “The kid's out of control!” he says when he catches his breath.

  “That's it,” says the coach playing umpire, making the sign umpires do for ejection. “This scrimmage is done.”

  “No way!” David yells. “You're just mad because we're winning.”

  “I'm not going to have my boys come up like ducks at a shooting gallery,” the coach says.

  “It was just an inside pitch,” I lie. “The ball just got away from him.”

  “I know a beanball when I see one,” says the coach. “You get off my field,” he says, pointing at Sturgis. “The rest of you, too. We didn't sign up for this garbage.”

  “Aw, come on!” David is now running in from first to argue some more, but Peter waves him back and approaches the coaches to talk it over.

  “I'll be right back,” I tell them, and walk Sturgis out.

  “You hit that guy pretty good,” I say when we're out of earshot. “Knocked the wind out of him.”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “I didn't like him either,” I say with a shrug. “It wasn't a good time to throw at him, though. It loaded the bases with one out. Besi
des, they probably won't even let us finish now.”

  “I don't care,” he says. “It was worth it.”

  “Hi,” says Peter, exiting the ballpark. “I talked them coaches into letting you boys finish. They said I have to keep an eye on this one.” He winks at Sturgis. “They're afraid he'll throw rocks through their windows if I don't.”

  Sturgis halfheartedly kicks a tire on the truck, not really looking at me or Peter.

  I leave them both there and go back to the game.

  “Sir, can we bring in another pitcher?” I ask the coach.

  “Who is it?” he asks. “I don't want any more thugs throwing at my boys.”

  I point at Rita on the bench. He takes one look at her and rolls his eyes.

  “Go ahead,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “Bring her out.” Under his breath, I hear something about a “freaking circus.” Only he doesn't say “freaking” exactly.

  Rita comes to the mound with the bases loaded. She looks scared. She prepares to warm up, but I signal at her to stop. I don't want anyone to see her screwball pitch.

  “She doesn't need any warm-up pitches,” I tell the umpire.

  The next batter steps to the plate. It's the fellow who was laughing so hard in the first inning he grounded out on one pitch. He's laughing even harder this time. He takes a huge swing at Rita's first pitch. He might have knocked it to kingdom come if it was a regular pitch, but it's Rita's crazy screw-ball pitch. He grazes the ball with the top of his bat and bounces it back to Rita. The runners hold. Rita tosses the ball to David for the out.

  As soon as she lets go of the ball, the runner on third takes off. David whips the ball back to me, and I'm able to get it and block the plate in plenty of time. The runner bowls into me, trying to knock the ball out of my hand, but I hang on.

  The umpire signals the out. A third 0 appears on the scoreboard. We've won.

  There's no handshakes, and nobody says “Good game” or “Thanks for coming.” We just gather our things while the players begin their morning drills.

  “Nice pitching,” P.J. tells Rita.

  She laughs. “I only threw one pitch.”

  “Two outs on one pitch. That's pretty good.” P.J. is smooth, I have to admit.

  “Well, we won,” I say when we get out into the parking lot. “Good job, everyone.”

  “If it was a real game, they would have trounced us,” says Steve.

  “Maybe,” I say. “We still did good.”

  “I wanted to hit,” says David.

  “Yeah, me too,” says Miggy.

  Peter's waiting alone in the cabin of the truck.

  “Hey, what happened to Sturgis?” I wonder.

  Peter just shrugs. “He said he had things to do.”

  The return to Moundville is not exactly celebratory. The back of the truck is hot and dark and airless, and saps whatever energy we might have left. When we finally tumble out, everyone looks drained.

  “Good game, Captain,” Rita tells me quietly, casually touching my arm as she heads off for home. Shannon herself just nods and follows. The boys mumble that they'll see me tomorrow and scatter. We're acting like teams act when they've lost.

  “I want to ride back to Sutton with you guys,” I tell Peter when everyone is gone. “See what's going on with my brother.”

  “You don't have to do that,” he says. “He said he'll walk to the home and garden store and catch a ride with your dad.”

  “I guess I will, too, then.” I climb into the truck. PJ. slides into the middle, grumbling about losing the window seat.

  “Sorry.” I squish myself against the door, trying to take up less space.

  “That was a pretty dumb move, what he did,” Peter muses as he gets back on the highway. “Throwing at that boy.”

  “I know.”

  “I told him so, too. I thought St. James might offer him a scholarship, seeing what he can do. A school like that? With their baseball team? It would have been good for him.”

  I gulp, thinking about Sturgis getting the red-carpet treatment at St. James when I can't even go anymore. Nobody ever thought about me getting a scholarship, but I guess I'm not special the way Sturgis is special. I'm good but not extraordinary.

  I don't know if I'm mad at Sturgis for blowing it or a little bit relieved.

  “What's he up to anyway?”

  “He said he had stuff to do.”

  “So you don't know?”

  “No,” he says, but he's not a very good liar. I bet he knows exactly where Sturgis is or at least has a pretty good idea.

  I think about Sutton. It's a big enough city that there are a dozen places a kid might go if he was bored and on his own. I guess most kids would head to either the mall or the business district near the river, where lots of hippies and skate punks like to hang out. Neither of those strike me as places that would tempt Sturgis, though. He hasn't shown much interest in shopping or being cool.

  On the other side of town, there's not much in the way of fun stuff. Just houses and businesses. One business towers above all the others: the state prison.

  “He's visiting his dad, isn't he?”

  “I didn't even know his dad was at the penitentiary,” he says innocently.

  “I didn't say anything about the penitentiary. I just said he was visiting his dad.”

  “Oh yeah.” Peter mutters at himself under his breath. I decide not to press, since he's driving us around and everything.

  “Can we stop and eat?” PJ. asks as we hit the outskirts of Sutton.

  “Do you want to?” Peter asks me. “I can treat.” I'm glad he offers, because the second PJ. mentions food, I realize I'm really hungry, but I'm broke.

  “I can pay you back later, but I didn't bring any money,” I tell him.

  “Don't worry about it.” Peter pulls off at a divey little hot dog stand called Uncle Franky's.

  We eat outside, dripping Uncle Franky's special sauce on our shirts. I'm usually a mustard and onion guy, but that sauce is amazing—kind of like mayo, but spicy. It complements the mustard and onion perfectly.

  “So I was wondering about that Native American kid,” I tell Peter between bites. “The one who didn't really drown.”

  “Ptan Teca?”

  “Yeah, him. If he's, like, mad at us and everything, why isn't it raining anymore?”

  “It's not about the rain,” he says. “It never was about the rain.”

  PJ. gives me a look, and I guess that he's heard his father's theories far too many times.

  “Well, what was it about, then?” I know I'm driving P.J. crazy by not dropping it, but I'm curious.

  “Baseball,” Peter says. “It was about baseball.”

  “Come on. I've never heard of an Indian curse being about baseball.”

  “You've heard of the curse on Moundville. They always lost to Sinister Bend.”

  “That wasn't a curse curse, though. It's just one of those things people make up because they can't explain why their team loses all the time.”

  “Ptan Teca loved baseball. He loved to beat the settlers at their own game. After he disappeared, the two teams kept playing, and his team won every time. I don't just mean for the next few years but every year for over a hundred years. You tell me that's just people making something up.”

  It could be explained by percentages. You take all the towns that play baseball against other towns, and one of those towns might put together a streak like that. At least, I think so. I don't know how to do the math. I don't think Peter would buy it, even if I did. I have a more practical question anyway.

  “How could his team keep winning if the Dakota all had to leave?”

  “By that time, there was no line to draw between white and Native American. The trading post had already been around for two or three generations. Everyone was a little bit of one or the other. If you were supposed to be a Native American, you had a German grandfather. If you were supposed to be white, you had a Dakota grandmother. That's just how it was. Some
of the Dakota left, but a lot of the people who stayed were a little bit Dakota in blood and spirit. The town that became Sinister Bend was made up of those people.”

  “So what was the curse? Sinister Bend beating Moundville every year?”

  “I don't know if it was a curse exactly. A curse is when things go bad just because someone said they would. This was things going bad for Moundville because the spirits made them go wrong.”

  “Or maybe Sinister Bend was just better.”

  “You would think that if you never saw a game,” he says. “You weren't there, though.”

  “I guess not.”

  “I saw nine games,” he says. “Eight and a half, at least. Every year, you could feel the spirits at work. Swirling winds that carry balls into the gap. Rays of sunlight that would break through the clouds just in time to blind a fielder, allowing a ball to drop in. One year a crow squawked when-ever Moundville batted and fell silent whenever Sinister Bend batted. If you were there, at those games, you knew that Moundville was meant to lose.”

  My dad tells some of those stories. He says they always felt doomed when they played Sinister Bend. I always thought it was just making excuses. Well, maybe Moundville was cursed or plagued by evil spirits or whatever. The only problem is, I don't believe in stuff like that.

  “Why the rain, then?” I ask. “The rain didn't help Sinister Bend win. The rain washed out a game they were a few outs away from winning.”

  At this point, PJ. gets up and just starts walking around, kind of agitated.

  “You always assume things,” Peter says.

  “Like assuming Sinister Bend was going to win? They were ahead by ten runs.”

  “Moundville was getting to the pitcher, though. He'd thrown a bunch of pitches already, and they were catching up to him. I was batboy for that team, and I remember how worried we were about getting through the last couple of innings. We'd seen it happen before. When he lost the edge on his fastball, he could give up a dozen runs, easy. Once you figure out a pitcher, he's useless. Then that guy—your dad—he made our guy throw another thirty, forty pitches. We didn't have anyone else in our bullpen. I think it could have turned into a disaster.”