"Shut up, Albert," said Jennifer T.
She had not yet forgiven her father, and she was not sure that she was going to do so anytime soon. He had caused her too much embarrassment and shame over the years. He had missed too many ball games, recitals, doctor's visits, and school plays. Those which he had attended, he had too often spoilt. But he was trying, and though she doubted it would last, she was too pure a ballplayer not to give credit to the other side for trying. As she trotted past him, she slapped his outstretched hand.
"Way to pitch 'em, J.T.," he said, watching her go by.
"Okay, Dad," she said, and then felt her cheeks burning. It had been a very long time since she had called her father "Dad."
As for Ethan, he was kept busy all through the game. There was a broken double-steal in the second inning that led to a rundown between third base and home. There was a foul-tipped third strike that Ethan bobbled but caught for an out. In the fifth, Jennifer T. got a certain itchy look that Ethan recognized. She wrinkled up her nose, and her sock seemed to be bothering her. She walked two batters in a row. Ethan went out to talk to her.
"You can do it," he said.
"I know I can," said Jennifer T. "Thank you. Now get off my mound, Feld."
Ethan nodded. Peavine warns, in his book, that pitchers do not like to be visited by their catchers, no matter how badly they may need the visit.
After that, Jennifer T.'s sock seemed to be all right. She struck out the next two batters to retire the side.
In the bottom of the seventh, with the score tied, the Angels runner at third came charging home. Ethan took the throw from short. He came out from behind the plate. He planted his feet. He lowered his shoulder. He remembered that you must hold on to the ball, in the words of the great Peavine, "as if you are holding on to the love of your very truest friend." He imagined that he was holding on to the love of Jennifer T. Rideout, and to the great adventure they had just lived through together. He had been so busy in the game, until now, that he had forgotten to remember that this would be the very last game of the season. The Angels baserunner, head down, fists pumping, came at him.
Ethan took a deep breath. He smelled the tar-and-butter smell of the oil Jennifer T. had used to soften up his glove. He smelled cut grass, and Kool-Aid, and hot dogs with ketchup. He could see the green ribbon of the outfield and the long shadow of the bleachers. He heard the scrape of the oncoming cleats in the dirt of the base path. He heard his heart beating behind his chest protector. Without even looking, he could see the Angels running wild on the bases. He could see his teammates standing and jumping and yelling and staring in at home with their hands on top of their caps as if to hold them on. He could hear the ragged, hoarse cheering of his father, in his XXL Ruth's Fluff 'n' Fold Roosters jersey. He could see Jennifer T. coming halfway down the hill, glove on her hip, believing in him.
Ethan got knocked down. When he stood up again, his mouth was full of dirt, he had taken a knee in the eye, and his nose was bleeding. But he was still holding on to the ball.
MICHAEL CHABON
is the internationally best-selling author of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, which received the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. He is also the author of The Yiddish Policemen's Union, as well as two other novels, a novella, two short story collections, and two nonfiction books. He lives in Berkeley, California, with his wife, the novelist Ayelet Waldman, and their four children. Visit him online at www.michaelchabon.com.
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