The Summer of the Homerun
Page 4
seeing the ball rolling away from the fielders and I knew that I would score and that my home run would win the game. My teammates mobbed me after I crossed the plate. My hit had won the game 1 to 0. I was a thirteen-year-old hero.
The next day when the score was read as part of the morning announcements and they said I hit the game-winning home run, Sandy Miller, who sat three rows in front of me in homeroom (a little to the right; I had to shift my seat around some to be able to see the side of her face) turned and smiled at me. I smiled back, but then embarrassed, nailed my eyes to the floor.
But then I remembered the day the New Kid arrived in school for the first time. Sandy was leaning on her locker, teasing me about something when he walked by. She just stared at him, and after he passed said, "Ooh, I think I'm in love," and then hit me on the arm like it was a joke. I wanted it to be a joke. We were getting closer. I was her Smitty, and she was my Sandy. That’s what she said.
On the field I looked up again for the ball. The sun was fat and yellow, and the bottom of the shimmering circle was being eaten away by the tops of the trees, rising like so many hungry fingers to tear away the moment of peace.
I remember I looked at Sandy. Her eyes were following the New Kid as he passed down the long hallway, his head still visible above the crowd. That morning before homeroom we had stood in this spot and kissed, just a little peck. I remember her smile and feeling so special.
But now she looked back at me and maybe there was something in my eyes, but hers seemed different. She touched my cheek. “Oh, Smitty,” she said, and turned and closed her locker and moved away.
I felt suddenly confused, distorted somehow, the floor moving and me wondering why. Like I felt standing in left field replaying a moment of glory, knowing it had already been surpassed; feeling changed. Nothing was certain anymore; nothing was as black and white as I imagined it to be just that second before, now having for the first time a knowledge of grays.
I tried to find the ball sailing through that miraculous haze. I tried to find Sandy walking down the hallway. The world felt larger, growing, the hallway, the school, the sky beyond and above me as I stood on the grassy field expanding rapidly, exploding and I standing still and small in one spot as the world ran away.
Slow down, I heard someone say. It hasn't even landed yet.
About the Author
Michael Stephen Daigle
I have been writing most of my life. I was an award -winning print journalist for 30 years, and now I am an online journalist and author. I live in New Jersey.
I am working on a novel, “The Swamps of Jersey.” It is about political corruption and I’m writing it in real time, that is to say, reflecting some of the activities that mark our present lives. The central character is Frank Nagler, a cop whose troubled heart is ever present. He is also a character I’ve been familiar with for about 30 years and have at least two other “Frank Nagler” stories planned.
“The Resurrection of Leo” was presented a 2011 award for fiction by The Fiction Writers Platform.
My work is available at https://www.michaelstephendaigle.com/
I can reached by email at michaelstephendaigle@hotmail.com
I’m on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/#!/michaelstephendaigle
Connect with me on LinkedIn at www.linkedin.com/pub/michael-daigle/11/63/806/