Spring Training

“Hey, Bill.” Bob’s voice rang down the stairs. “Grab your glove. We’re all going down to the school and play ball.”

I looked out the window. Gray, but dry. Green grass, but no leaves on the trees. Jacket weather for sure, but there wasn’t any wind. I grabbed my glove and ran up the stairs.

Ten minutes later, I joined a dozen other kids, swarming over a ball field while we chose teams. My enthusiasm always exceeded my skill and everyone knew it, so I was the last one chosen. But, I yearned for a chance to prove myself. Where? On the pitcher’s mound, of course, with my success visible to everyone.

I turned to my team captain. “Hey, Buzz, can I pitch?”

Older and a natural athlete, he could afford to be generous. “Sure.” He tossed me the ball.

Such a gentle throw. Underhanded. Barely a foot over my head. I kept my eyes on the ball, my hand out for the easy catch. But, the ball went toward my face and my hand with the glove never moved.

The hardball landed on my upper lip, splitting it open and sending blood into my mouth along with searing pain. I screamed and my friends helped me stumble toward the water fountain where I drenched the cut with enough cold water to discourage most of the bleeding. Bob walked me home while I sniffled as my lip swelled.

Mom made sure I wasn’t seriously hurt and gave me a cup of tomato soup, because warmth, as we thought in those days, was supposed to promote healing.

A few hours later, my friend, Brad, called. “Hi, Bill. Feel like playing a little catch?”

“Um…” My swollen lip made it difficult for me to talk. “Maybe something inside. How about some chess?”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.