by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis
In the next week, with Grandma Ida offering encouragement, Little Ida became known as “The Rabbit,” flying around the diamond like a demented bunny. All the other girls demanded their own nicknames. Soon, Buck was teaching Killer, Slayer, Boom Boom and Slick how to slide. My job fell somewhere between cheerleader and mom. The All-Star team was coming together. And, to my surprise, I was enjoying myself.
The next thing I knew, Hank was dragging me along to practice with his and Buck’s adult team, the Mossy Creek Mustangs. He failed to tell me that this team was also entered in the playoffs until I was appointed assistant coach and team scorekeeper. I was now an official member of the team. Not only did I have to watch the others play my game, I had to record it.
I smiled and pretended that didn’t hurt, either.
The Fourth of July dawned clear and hot. The mountains sucked up the air, and the sun couldn’t even find a cloud to hide behind. Hank was up early, making his rounds, feeding and treating his boarders at the clinic, then getting on the phone to reassure parents about the girls’ chances of winning in the playoffs. I couldn’t believe this comfortable small town veterinarian was the same man who’d been determined to join the Angel Memorial veterinary staff as a surgical intern. He’d turned into his father, and the transition had come so easy to him. For me, it was harder to find my place in Mossy Creek society.
“Ready, Case?” Hank called out from the clinic door as I was washing the breakfast dishes at a special tub I set up on the porch of the farmhouse.
“Ready for what? It’s too early.”
“We need to get into town. I want to check on the ball field.”
There was no delaying him. Already dressed in his playing shorts and numbered tee shirt, he’d become a ball player with his toe on the pitching mound. I might as well get ready.
When I rolled myself out to the van, I found a package on the passenger seat. Hank had bought me a team shirt. The name on the back read Mighty Casey. And the number was the same as the one I’d worn in college—number 6.
“Like it?” Hank asked quietly.
I looked at him with tears in my eyes and nodded. “I don’t know what to say—”
A soft, whickering sound stopped me. I froze as I looked across the van’s front seats at Hank. “There’s something in the back of this van,” I said in a low voice. “And it sounds like a horse.”
“That, my sexy wife, is not just a horse. That is a miniature mustang.”
He opened the van’s side doors. I gazed at a tiny brown pony tethered inside a crate full of hay. His white mane and forelock were so shaggy I couldn’t see his eyes. “Looks like a pony who needs a haircut, to me.”
Hank laughed. “Well, for our purposes, he’s a wild, miniature mustang. He’s our team mascot. From now on, the Twelve-And-Unders are the Lady Mustangs.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
In town, red, white and blue banners lined the gazebo. The fireworks started early when someone tied a bunch of balloons to the sword of General Augustas Brimberry Hamilton of Jefferson’s Third Confederate Division. The pigeons that normally rested on his broad-brimmed hat protested the distraction and retaliated by puncturing the balloons one by one.
Around the grassy square, booths had been set up where handmade leather goods, artwork and hooked rugs were offered for sale. Barbequed pigs and chickens were turning on spits. And deep iron pots of bubbling grease were frying catfish. A mountain of yellow corn was shucked and ready to be boiled. Later, there would be watermelon and pie-eating contests.
When we arrived at the ball field, Hank led the pony into our dugout and tied him to the chain-link fence beside a bucket of water and a pile of hay. As soon as the girls got there, they surrounded the pony with squealing delight. “What’s his name?”
“Uhmmm…Homerun,” I said. “Yes. Homerun. We can call him Homer, for short.”
“Homer, Homer!” they chanted.
“Oh, Casey, he’s beautiful,” Little Ida said. “He’ll bring us good luck. Thank you!” I looked at her glowing eyes and those of the other girls, then met Hank’s gentle gaze. “Girls, I have to tell you that this whole idea was really—”
“Okay, okay, the hat was my idea,” Hank said.
“What?”
He pulled a pony-sized baseball cap from his back pocket. It even had special holes cut in it for the pony’s ears. He fitted it on Homer’s head. The knee-high fake-wild mustang peered out at us through mounds of white mane. Homer looked like a sheepdog. Plus, he was now wearing a turquoise baseball cap with the name Lady Mustangs embroidered across the bill. “And look what our sponsor, Hamilton’s Department Store, has for everybody else.” Hank opened a long canvas tote bag. Beautiful turquoise softball shirts tumbled out.
The girls cheered.
I rolled a few yards away, wiping my eyes. Hank followed me. “And, by the way, Case, you’re on the team program. Buck put you down as a coach. He figured you deserved it.” I swallowed hard. I had a uniform, and I was on an official roster of two softball teams—the Mustangs and the Lady Mustangs. I never expected that to happen again. The lump in my throat refused to budge.
The girls’ game started at noon under a broiling sun. Excitement was high as the turquoise-uniformed Lady Mustangs of Mossy Creek took the field. The stands were full, the girls optimistic. But at the end of three innings, the Bigelow Baronettes led the Lady Mustangs by five runs.
“Look, little ladies,” Buck said, more patiently than I’d heard him speak before, “we’re ready to put in our secret plan. I want you next two batters to bend your knees and look like you’re going to hit it out of the park. Grit your teeth. Get mean!”
I took the floor. “Then, just squat there.”
“You mean you want us to Wait on the pitch, don’t you?” the player nicknamed Killer asked, lowering her voice to mimic Buck’s.
I nodded. “Yes. Wait until the next inning, if you have to! But this inning, don’t, under any circumstances, swing.”
Puzzled but following orders, Killer got set. Knees bent, arms up, she waited as the first pitch came in high.
“Ball one!”
The next pitch was a strike. Killer squirmed.
Buck called time and whispered into her ear.
She squatted lower.
The next two pitches were balls followed by another strike. “Full count now,” the umpire said, “Three balls—two strikes.”
Killer squatted lower.
“Ball four.”
Buck turned to me in the dugout. “Well, I swear,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t have believed we could get that to work if you hadn’t told me.”
I grinned. The team managed to put two runners on base before the first out hit the scoreboard. Boom Boom, our best hitter, was up next. I whispered instructions to her.
“What’d you tell her?” Buck asked.
“Secret girl stuff,” I said.
The whole team was standing now in the dugout, fingers grasping the fence like woodpeckers hanging on to tree bark. The pitch came. Boom Boom hit the ball. It went over the right fielder’s head and rolled to the fence. As Boom Boom rounded second, our two base runners crossed the plate. The ball came in to the Baronettes’ rattled second baseman. Just as I had hoped, she threw the ball over the third baseman’s head and Boom Boom crossed the plate at a placid jog.
In the dugout, everyone, except me and Homer, of course, jumped up and down. Even Buck. I burst out laughing.
We scored two more runs that inning.
The Lady Mustangs held steady for the next couple of innings before the Baronettes went ahead by a run, then we caught up. The score was now Baronettes 6, Lady Mustangs 6. Soon we were down to the last inning. As the home team, we had the last bat. All the Baronettes had to do was keep us from scoring, and the game would go into extra innings. Our team had been lucky, so far. If there were extra innings, our luck would probably run out.
The Lady Mustangs’ first two batters popped out. Finally, our girl Slic
k hit a low line drive and made it to second.
Little Ida was next at bat.
“I’m The Rabbit, I’m The Rabbit,” she chanted as she went to the plate. Following my instructions, she took her stance and squatted so low she looked like her nickname. All we needed was a hit or a mistake by the other team. As she crouched there, I could feel the tension. For not once—either in a practice session or any game—had Little Ida Walker actually hit the ball.
Even Homer seemed to be holding his breath.
Strike one. Strike two. Ida narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. The pitcher threw the ball a third time.
“Now, Rabbit, now!” I yelled.
For the first time all summer, Little Ida hit a ball. She slammed it. The ball dribbled straight down the right field line.
“Let it go foul!” the Bigelow coach yelled to his first baseman.
“Run, Bunny…uh…Furry…uh…Rabbit!” Buck screamed, swinging his arm in a circle toward first base.
Little Ida, too surprised to move, simply stood there.
“Run, Rabbit!” I cried. “Use your brain and your feet! Show them how fast you are!”
She launched herself toward first base like a turquoise whirlwind. The ball rolled to a stop about halfway from first plate—still in fair territory. The catcher and the first baseman darted toward it at the same time, tripped each other, and sat down hard in the dust cloud Little Ida made as she flew by them. Slick headed for third. The catcher scrambled to her feet and threw wild to the surprised pitcher, who flailed at the ball hopelessly. It bypassed her glove and rolled between the shortstop and the second baseman as if it had eyes. They collided over it.
“Run!” screamed Buck.
Slick raced toward home. The Barronette second baseman finally picked up the ball and threw it to the pitcher. When the dust settled, Ida was safe at first base.
And Slick had scored the winning run.
“Home team scores,” the umpire called out. “That’s the game.”
Little Ida started to cry.
I rolled my chair to the field and grabbed her. “You did it, Rabbit. We won the game. You got the winning RBI.”
“But I didn’t get to run around the bases.”
“Doesn’t matter. You hit the ball. The Lady Mustangs scored. You’re a hero.”
The stands were screaming. The teams gave each other high fives. Then with Little Ida in my lap, the Lady Mustangs rolled my wheelchair around the diamond chanting “Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit!”
It was a miracle. Homer neighed with excitement.
“You did it,” Hank said, grinning as he loped over and kissed me.
I shrugged. “I just used my brain.”
“Well, use it some more. Come on.” He wheeled me to the next ball field, where the adult teams were warming up. I stationed myself and my wheelchair in the dugout of the Mossy Creek Mustangs with a lap desk and a scorebook. I penciled in the line-ups and told myself this was as good as the day was going to get. I’d accomplished a lot. I could bear to watch my friends, my neighbors, and my husband play softball without me.
We take our softball seriously in Mossy Creek. Things got tense right away when three Bigelow Baron batters, including the first woman to hit, got on base. Hank’s pitching was, to put it mildly, interesting. “Sort of looks like he’s winding up to swat the back end of a cow,” I heard one of our teammates say. Everyone chortled.
I chewed on the end of my pencil. The next Bigelow batter, the right fielder, a shapely blonde, picked up a bat and sauntered to the plate, setting off a chorus of wolf whistles. “That’s Swee Purla’s younger sister,” someone said. “Interior decorator. Just like Swee. Mean as a snake in silk.”
She hit a hard line drive that careened off Hank’s foot toward Little Ida’s dad Robert, the first baseman. Robert scooped it up and stepped on the base. Next, the Bigelow catcher popped up. Two outs, bases still loaded. I pushed a sweaty strand of hair away from my forehead as a Bigelow banker about the size of Rush Limbaugh popped a short fly over the head of our wiry shortstop, Nail Delgado. The Barons scored their first run. Their pitcher, a woman, hit a dinger over first, and a second run scored.
Out in center field, Sandy Crane chewed a wad of gum, squinted with deadly intent, and crept forward. Her determined look said, No dingers are getting past me. When Hank let the next pitch go, I knew we were lost. We all watched in dismay as the Bigelow batter slapped the ball over Sandy’s head. The ball rolled all the way to the fence. The Barons’ runner held at third. The next batter struck out. We were lucky to be only three runs behind.
That’s where it stayed for four innings. Bigelow 3, Mossy Creek 0. League rules had set the game at an hour and twenty minutes time or seven innings unless the score was tied. Our team finally scored two runs in the fifth. The crowd behind our home-team dugout went wild. I could hear the Lady Mustangs screaming in excitement. Little Ida’s voice carried across the other fans when she yelled, “Go, Coaches!”
But the crowd went silent when the Barons scored another run in the bottom of the fifth, putting us two runs behind. Nail Delgado went down with a pulled hamstring in the top of the sixth and Chief Royden—our catcher—got a phone call and had to leave the field. “Two fender benders out on West Mossy Creek Road,” he said as he gathered his gear in the dugout. “Sorry. We’re short-handed during the holidays. And I promised Mutt he could have the Fourth off.”
Mutt ducked his head in grateful acknowledgement. He had a new girlfriend in the stands.
“Chief, I’ll go,” Sandy called. She wanted to be a full-fledged police officer in the worst way. “I can write up a ticket! I can make notes about the dents and the tire marks! I can take people’s statements and yell at ‘em for speedin’! Lemme go, Chief, uh, please?”
Amos Royden didn’t bat an eye. “Only one little problem. You’re not a police officer. It would be illegal.”
“Picky, picky, Chief.”
He shook his head in amazement and left.
We were out of substitutes and almost out of time. Tension gripped the field like a tightly clenched fist. Olympic tryouts couldn’t have been more serious. In the bottom of the seventh, we were still two runs behind. Sandy, our first batter, hit a grounder that bounced over the shortstop’s head. Hank managed to get to first on a well-hit ball to right. When Regina Regina, our double-deck-named cocktail waitress over at O’Day’s Pub, popped up, things looked grim. Then we got a break; the Bigelow pitcher walked Mutt, the next batter.
One out and the bases loaded; we still had a chance. Behind me, in the silence, I heard a low murmur. Buck Looney, our most dependable homerun hitter, was up. The crowd’s applause rose and took on a cadence. Buck glanced toward the stands, cocked his head for a moment, then nodded. “Casey,” he snapped, “Get a bat. You’re up.” He turned to the umpire. “We’re putting in Casey Blackshear for Buck Looney.”
My mouth fell open. “Me?”
“You. Everybody on this team plays. It’s one of my rules.”
“But I’m not really on the team, Buck.”
“Oh yes, you are. Once your name goes on the roster, you’re official. Besides, your fans are calling for you.”
The crowd noise grew louder. I could hear the Lady Mustangs. “We want Casey. We want Casey. We want Casey.”
“Buck, don’t be foolish. I’m a scorekeeper, not a player. I can’t bat. I can’t walk.”
“I’m not asking you to walk, Casey. I’ll push you out to the plate. You stand up and bat.”
“I can’t do it.” He couldn’t know how badly I wanted to stand up and swing a bat again. He couldn’t feel the shaft of pain in my heart, or he wouldn’t keep on asking. By this time, every eye in the park was fixed on me.
“Remember Mighty Casey,” Little Ida called out.
“Yeah,” I growled under my breath. “Mighty Casey struck out.”
Hank walked down from first base. “Go for it, babe. You’re a champion, remember?”
I looked up into my h
usband’s adoring eyes and wanted to disappear. He’s helped everyone back you into a corner, I told myself. Your parents and everybody else in Mossy Creek are watching. If you don’t try, the Lady Mustangs will think you’re a coward. But if you do get up there, you’ll strike out and maybe cause us to lose the game.
The chant grew louder. “We want Casey. We want Casey.”
I knew what I had to do. What I wanted was unimportant.
By refusing to try, I’d make myself a quitter before my Lady Mustang team. My team. When had it become my team? When Little Ida tripped over the base on the first day, that’s when. Slowly, I rolled forward and picked up my bat. “Get my braces out of the van, Hank.”
Hank gave the umpire the signal for time out.
The crowd hushed as he ran up the hill to the van.
The umpire moved over to the dugout to confer with Buck for a moment. “Batter Up!” he called out, resuming his place behind the Bigelow catcher.
I rolled my chair into the batter’s circle and took a couple of practice swings.
The umpire reached out to help push my chair to the plate. I shook my head. I’d do it on my own, or I wouldn’t do it. Studying the plate, I positioned my chair so that as I stood my feet would be in the right place. Hank made it back to the field with my braces and strapped them on. He loped out to first base and stood there on the plate, watching me urgently.
“How much time have I got, Ump?” I asked as I released my wheelchair’s foot rests, leaned my bat against the side of the chair, and firmly set my feet on the ground.
“Three minutes,” he answered.
I drew in a shaky breath and pushed myself up. There was a gasping sound, as if the crowd had inhaled at the same time. I made certain that my feet were balanced, then motioned for Buck to move my chair away. Casey Champion Blackshear lifted her bat one more time.
The chant picked up again, growing louder as all the fans joined in. From the expression on the pitcher’s face, I knew he was worried. Not worried that I’d hit the ball—worried that he would hit me.
