Love is a Wounded Soldier Read Free Page A

bullhorn.
    My heart bounced off my Adam’s apple and I
felt the sweat bead on my forehead. I tried to walk nonchalantly over to where
Ma and Mrs. Herman Schnell sat on an old red and white checkered picnic blanket
under the shade of a gnarly oak tree, discussing cream prices, dress patterns,
and other things of concern to women. Moses was not one to socialize, so he sat
on the other end, plucking blades of grass absentmindedly, staring distantly at
a legion of ants racing back and forth with bits of food.
    I picked up my mitt from under the tree
where I’d left it and put it on slowly.
    “I guess I’ll be going to play ball,” I
said to no one in particular, hoping Moses would come over to watch. He didn’t
move. I started to walk slowly past him.
    “You coming to play baseball?” I asked,
trying to sound offhand, like it really didn’t matter to me if he came or not.
He took his eyes off the ant he was worrying with a blade of grass.
    “I reckon I might come watch.”
    Immediately, I wasn’t sure whether I felt
glad or just more anxious. Part of me was elated he was coming to watch, but
the other part felt pressure, not from him, but from myself.
    He got up slowly and we walked to the
diamond. He settled down on the grass to the right of home plate, and I lined
up for picking teams. Captains were chosen, and Big Joe Daniels picked me
fourth, which I was somewhat self-satisfied with, since there were a lot of
bigger, older boys and men there. I glanced over to see if Moses had taken
note. I don’t know if I was expecting him to have a look of awe and wonder on
his face at seeing his son picked so early in the draft, but if he was bursting
with pride, he sure did hide it well.
    The game commenced, and I was reasonably
happy with my performance. I was playing cautiously, defensively, wanting to be
a hero, but more concerned with avoiding looking like a fool. I would be content
with convincing Moses that I was a solid ball player, though I really wanted to
prove I was a superstar.
    One inning trailed another, and the score
see-sawed back and forth. For me the score wasn’t so important as personally
doing well. I singled, doubled, and flied out. I caught a fly in left field
that was two strides away from being a spectacular catch. But until the top of
the eighth, I really hadn’t shown the prowess I’d been hoping to show. I knew
it might be my last at bat.
    There was one batter out with two runners
on the corners as I approached the plate, looking askance to see if Moses was
still watching the game. He was. On most days I would have been assessing the
crowd to see if Sally Anderson was spectating. She didn’t even cross my mind. I
decided it was time to take a risk. Time to attempt a big hit.
    I clutched the worn hickory bat in sweaty
palms as I approached the batter’s box and wiped my hands on the sides of my
overalls. Pulling my ball cap low, I settled into the batter’s box, scraping
the two shallow dirt troughs on the left side of the plate with my feet, like a
hog making things ready to settle down. I slowly brought the bat horizontally
over the plate, indicating the strike zone, and settled back, twitching it back
and forth in what I hoped to be a strong, catlike motion.
    The sun wasn’t high, but it was intense, so
in spite of my cap, I squinted toward the pitcher’s mound as though keeping the
shards of sunlight from penetrating my eyes. Billy Thompson stood on the mound,
looking so tall it seemed he’d obscure the sun if I stood any closer. He’d
played semi-pro in Illinois as a young man, and when he’d throw a pitch, you’d
swear he could make the seams smoke. The year before he’d pitched to me like I
was a kid, and he’d been a little soft on me at the start of the game, but by
now, he was coming at me with all he had. He spat on the ground and put his
glove up near his face, so I could just see his eyes. My body started and
jerked, imperceptibly to the eye, but I could feel it, as if my