The Horse is Dead Read Free Page A

Mr. Robinson didn't bother to wait for an answer. He turned and ran like hell.
    "All right, who is up first?" Nobody moved from the bench. "Somebody better get up here or I'll break your heads."
    One of the boys reluctantly got off the bench. He picked up one of the bats and started swinging it He walked over to the plate.
    "C'mon, get up to the plate," Nemiroff ordered. The pitcher wound up and hurled the ball about ten feet over the batter's head.
    "Strike one," Nemiroff said. It was raining rocks. Nemiroff signaled to the pitcher to continue.
    This time the pitch was so low it didn't even reach the plate. The batter watched it roll by his feet.
    "Strike two." Nemiroff didn't see the brick and it caught him on the left foot. He picked up the brick and casually heaved it in the direction of the bench. He watched as the kids fell all over each other trying to get out of its way. The brick hit one of the kids in the head and he fell off the bench. "Pick him up," Nemiroff ordered, "he's up next."
    The next pitch was thrown and the batter connected with a real shot over the center fielder's head. The batter started to run, but not before throwing the bat at Nemiroff and hitting him squarely in the groin. Nemiroff fell to the ground biting his lips.
    By the time Nemiroff stumbled up to one knee, the batter was rounding second and heading for third. Nemiroff forced himself to stand up, strange animal sounds coming from between his teeth. Nemiroff waited until the kid was halfway between third base and home plate before he lunged after him. He tackled him roughly around the knees, throwing the kid to the ground and falling on top of him.
    "Hurry up with the ball," Nemiroff groaned. He pushed the kid's face into the dirt. The center fielder had retrieved the ball and was running frantically toward Nemiroff. Nemiroff took the ball and raised it over his head. With his last ounce of strength he brought the ball crashing into the kid's head. "You're out," Nemiroff shouted in his ear.
    Nemiroff rolled off the kid and stared at the red welt left where the ball had smashed into his head. He pulled himself to his feet, the pain returning to his crotch as the sensation of grinding the baseball into the kid's head was leaving.
    "Take him back to the locker," Nemiroff said, "the game is over for today." Nemiroff staggered off the playing field and headed in the general direction of the infirmary. The front of his T-shirt was soaked with blood, and he found it rather difficult trying to walk in a straight line with both hands cupped between his legs. Nemiroff cursed himself for letting the little bastard get a clear shot at him. What could he have been thinking about? Where could his mind have been?
     
    Nurse Goodenow was sitting behind her desk, her legs propped up, revealing some of the ugliest meat Nemiroff had ever seen. He stared at her. Nurse Goodenow felt the eyes staring at her and peeped over the magazine she was reading. She saw Nemiroff bent over, leaning against the doorway, the blood trickling onto the floor. "Another baseball game?" she asked. Nemiroff nodded weakly and fainted on the floor.
    When Nurse Goodenow finished reading the article she had been engrossed in before Nemiroff arrived, she went over to where he was lying. "Nemiroff," she whispered, "you're a stupid son of a bitch." Nurse Goodenow waved the smelling salts under Nemiroff s nose. Nemiroff weakly raised his head. She saw the cut over his eye. "Wait a minute, I'll get the salt."
    Nemiroff tried to get to his feet. "Not the salt," he yelled. "Where the hell did you do your nursing?"
    Nurse Goodenow paid no attention to him. She came back carrying a salt shaker. She leaned over Nemiroff to sprinkle some on his cuts.
    "Get the hell away from me," he shouted.
    "Shut up and pull down your pants."
    "My pants?" He was sure he was dreaming.
    "You came in here holding your crotch, right?"
    "So what?" Nemiroff raised himself to a position that he could better defend