The Mascot
Page 2
Larry came downstairs in his uniform. His hat was blue and the high socks were red. There was a “B” on his cap. On the front of his shirt were stitched the words “Red Sox”. On the back were the words “Beatty’s Insurance”. Below were big red numbers, “12”. Across his shoulders was his name “Moriarity.” There was a lot to read on his uniform. He was carrying his glove and a package.
“Here you go, kid. A little present for opening night.”
A present? She was quite sure it was nowhere near her birthday or any holiday involving gifts. She tore at the brown paper. It was a uniform and a cap. The cap, which slid down to her ears, had a “B” on the front. The shirt said “Red Sox” on the front and “Beatty’s Insurance” above a big red number “6”. She was six! Across the shoulders it said “Munchkin.”
When her Uncle Larry went up to bat in the second inning, she made sure his glove was in place on the end of the bench. He hit the ball into the trees.
***
Mary Beth had grown to be tall and lanky like her uncle, like her father. She played third base and batted fourth for her team, The Bombard’s Bakery Red Sox. The games were played on the smaller diamond tucked in behind the large one and the ball was larger, a “softball” though it hurt well enough when it hit you. But despite a few different rules, the game was the same. You still wanted to be patient and get a good pitch to hit.
It was the semi-finals of the league play-offs. Win this one and get to play for the championship. Sometime in the middle of the game Mary Beth noticed that Larry was sitting on the top row of the small stands, cheering for her and her team. Their eyes met at one point as she was coming off the field and Larry winked and nodded and gave her a thumbs up sign. She nodded back and tried not to grin too widely. The little kids would wave and shout to people they knew in the stands. She was past that.
She was slamming balls all over the field and running in her coltish way all around the bases. But so were the players on the other team. It was the last inning, the seventh (they didn’t play nine, one of the different rules), and her team was losing ten to nine. But her teammates were not giving in easily. Two walks and a fumbled ground ball and the bases were loaded, two out. It was her turn to bat. The small crowd of friends and relatives was yelling and clapping. She probably could have made out Larry’s words of encouragement if she’d tried but her thoughts were on the pitcher, not the crowd. The girl pitching had been brought in from center field as a relief pitcher. She had struck out one batter, remained calm after the error on the ground ball and struck out the next one. She could throw the ball hard. But Mary Beth’s teammates had not been swinging at good pitches. They hadn’t been patient.
The first pitch came in around the height of her knees and away from her, a difficult place to reach. The umpire called out “Strike One.” She’ll probably try that again thought Mary Beth. The next pitch headed in the same direction but a little lower and a little farther away. Mary Beth knew she couldn’t do much with it. She let it go. “Ball One.” She’ll try something different this time. The next pitch was at the height of her shoulders and close enough to make her lean back. No chance. “Ball Two.” If it’s over the middle, go for it. But it was low and away again. Three balls, one strike. A hitter’s count. This was why you needed to be patient. Bases loaded, three balls, she has to come in with one now. The pitch came in straight and true and looked huge to Mary Beth. She swung and sent it far down the first base line, over the fence, into Park Street, where it bounced twice before rolling into the Purity Supreme parking lot. Little kids went chasing after it. Foul ball. The pitcher called time out and stepped back. The catcher went out to have a conversation about what sort of pitch they might want to throw next.
Mary Beth stepped back with the bat resting on her shoulder and looked out at the catcher and pitcher as they talked. People were shouting at her, shouting at everyone, but it was just noise in the background. Two strikes didn’t matter. The pitcher still had to throw one more strike. If the pitch was no good, she’d watch it go by and walk to first. The game would be tied and anything could happen after that. If the pitch looked good she would be patient, not try to force things but go with the pitch, try to hit it hard somewhere and trust in good luck or nervous fielders.
The catcher resumed her position. The pitcher was ready. Mary Beth planted her feet firmly in the dirt and lifted the bat high behind her head. She was not afraid.
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A note to the reader:
Independent authors depend to a large extent on their readers to spread the word about their work. If you enjoyed this story please take a few minutes to write a review to share with your fellow readers (or if you have some constructive criticism, that's fine, too. I can take it. I think.) Thanks. Drew
About the Author:
Drew Banton has written several novels and a handful of stories, all of which he intends on self-publishing. He has worked as a printer, welder, auto mechanic, bicycle frame builder, industrial mechanic and manufacturing engineer. The world of work plays a prominent role in his fiction.
He lives in Newton, Massachusetts with his wife and dog. When not writing he can usually be found walking the dog or working in his garage on one of his motorcycles.
e-mail: industrialstrengthpr@gmail.com
Web: https://dbanton77.wix.com/industrialstrengthpr#
Blog: https://theindustrialstrengthpress.wordpress.com/