The Youngest Hero Read Free Page A

drove for beer money and for
     fun.
    Elgin badgered me into taking him to Neal’s baseball games, but he was an obnoxious fan. He combined play-by-play with desperate
     coaching from the stands, trying to urge on his dad’s awful Zephyrs. They won about half their games.
    “Full count and two outs,” Elgin would holler. “Runners will be going! Runners should be going! Runners aren’t going! There’s
     the hit! C’mon, Shaw! Move with the pitch and you score on that play!”
    After each game, Elgin would debrief with Neal.
    “Outfield was too deep for their shortstop in the sixth, weren’t they?”
    Neal nodded.
    “Would you have taken Crawford out so soon in the seventh, Dad? Why not let him walk the hitter to load the bases and give
     Mehlis a little more time in the bull pen? Mehlis wasn’t ready. He got behind on the first guy and then had to come in with
     that candy pitch.”
    I could see Neal was impressed. “You saw that too, huh?” hesaid. “You also see that I’ve lost a step to first and that my arm has no pop anymore?”
    “You’ve lost two steps, Dad. But your arm is as good as ever. Ask Ernie.”
    Ernie was the Zephyr catcher who had taken a throw from Neal to cut down a runner. Ernie had made the tag and come up shaking
     his hand.
    At the park in town, Neal hit Elgin harder and harder grounders and line drives. He pitched faster and faster until we were
     forced to save our money and get Elgin a batting helmet.

    The helmet gave me a feeling I can’t describe. Dad told me to open my stance and make sure I was getting both eyes on the
     pitch. Now I could do that without worrying about getting beaned. It made Dad laugh, though, the way I stuck my face right
     into the pitch before trying to drive it somewhere.
    I loved to hit!

3
    M y family and my church taught me God hated divorce. Well, I didn’t believe in divorce either, but I knew something about hate.
     It was what I felt for Neal. As for biblical grounds, I happened to know I had those too, but that was nobody’s business but
     mine.
    I lived with the pain and the embarrassment as long as I could. Neal quit trying to get me back. I guess I convinced him I
     was through with him, and I hoped he was grateful he still had some contact with Elgin.
    A bad marriage was good gossip in Hattiesburg. I saw scorn on faces, heard it in tones of voice. I was a failure, pitiable,
     wife of that violent drunk who washed out as a professional baseball player and was now just a good ol’ boy, racing cars,
     bagging groceries, and playing a little ball on the side.
    I guess there was irony in my choice of a lawyer, but I didn’t know anybody else. Billy Ray Thatcher was an old friend of
     Neal’s family and had been his agent. He had worked on Neal’s contract with the Pirates, a five-figure deal that let Neal
     live like a king until he drank his talent away and the money ran out.
    Billy Ray’s claim to fame was that he had represented Bernie Pincham, a poor rural basketball player who became a six-time
     NBA all-star and was now worth millions. The newspaper saidthe agent’s commission on Pincham’s salary and endorsement deals alone more than doubled Thatcher’s firm’s gross receipts
     for several years. Billy Ray had also advised Bernie on investments. Pincham was worth many times in retirement what he had
     made playing basketball. The Woodells had assumed the same would be true for Neal.
    Mr. Thatcher had done his best, but unlike Bernie Pincham, Neal had not listened. He had not heard Billy Ray when he insisted
     that “everything, all of this—the bonus, the salary, the deals—hinges on what kind of a steward you are of your talent. If
     it doesn’t happen on the field, it doesn’t happen in the bank.
    “The bonus is yours. You can pay your bills and put the rest away. You know as well as I do that the odds are one hundred
     to one against a rookie-league player making a living as a big leaguer.”
    “I’ll make it,” Neal