What would Musial do? Swing the damned bat!

The first pitch was also underhanded, so I started breathing again. It was high, and I didn’t swing, and the Mexican chorus had a lot to say about that. The second pitch was down the middle, and I swung for the fence, for the left field wall, 350 feet away. I closed my eyes and swung for the thirty thousand lucky souls in Sportsman’s Park. I also swung for Tally.

“Strike one!” my father yelled, a little too loud, I thought. “You’re tryin’ to kill it, Luke,” he said.

Of course I was. I tried to kill the third pitch, too, and when Rico threw it back, I was faced with the horror of being down two strikes. A strikeout was unthinkable. Tally had just hit the ball nicely. She was on first base, anxious for me to put the ball in play so she could advance. We were playing on my field, with my ball and bat. All of those people were watching.

I stepped away from the plate and was stricken with the terror of striking out. The bat was suddenly heavier. My heart was pounding, my mouth was dry. I looked at my father for help, and he said, “Let’s go, Luke. Hit the ball.” I looked at Cowboy, and his nasty smile was even nastier. I did not know if I was ready for what he was going to throw.

I stutter-stepped back to the plate, gritted my teeth, and tried to think of Musial, but my only thoughts were of defeat, and I swung at a very slow pitch. When I missed for the third time, there was total silence. I dropped the bat, picked it up, and heard nothing as I walked back to my team, my lip quivering, already daring myself not to cry. I couldn’t look at Tally, and I sure couldn’t look at my father.

I wanted to run into the house and lock the doors.

Trot was next, and he held the bat with his right hand just under the label. His left arm hung limp, as always, and we were a little embarrassed at the sight of this poor kid trying to swing. But he was smiling and happy to be playing, and that was more important than anything else at the moment. He hacked at the first two, and I began to think the Mexicans would beat us by twenty runs. Somehow, though, he hit the third pitch, a gentle looping fly that landed behind second base, where at least four Mexicans managed to miss it. Tally flew around second and made it to third, while Trot shuffled down to first.

My humiliation, already enormous, grew even greater. Trot on first, Tally on third, only one out.

Bo was next, and because he was a large teenager with no visible handicaps, Cowboy stepped back and threw from a full windup. His first pitch was not too fast, but poor Bo was already shaking by the time the ball crossed home plate. He swung after Rico caught it, and Hank roared with laughter. Bo told him to shut up; Hank made some response, and I thought we might have a Spruill family brawl in the top of the first inning.

The second pitch was a little faster. Bo’s swing was a little slower. “Make him throw it underhand!” Bo yelled at us, trying to laugh it off.

“What a sissy,” Hank said. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill had joined the spectators, and Bo glanced at them.

I expected the third pitch to be even faster; so did Bo. Cowboy instead threw a change-up, and Bo swung long before the ball arrived.

“He’s mighty good,” my father said of Cowboy.

“I’m hittin’ next,” Hank announced, stepping in front of Dale, who didn’t argue. “I’ll show you boys how it’s done.”

The bat looked like a toothpick as Hank hacked and chopped with his practice swings, as if he might hit the ball across the river. Cowboy’s first pitch was a fastball away, and Hank didn’t swing. It popped into Rico’s glove, and the Mexicans erupted in another burst of Spanish jeering.

“Throw the ball over the plate!” Hank yelled as he looked at us for approval. I was hoping Cowboy would drill a fastball into his ear.

The second pitch was much harder. Hank swung and missed. Cowboy caught the ball from Rico, and glanced over at third, where Tally was waiting and watching.

Then Cowboy threw a curve, a pitch that went straight for Hank’s head, but as he ducked and dropped the bat, the baseball broke and fell magically through the strike zone. The Mexicans roared with laughter. “Strike!” Miguel yelled from second base.

“Ain’t no strike!” Hank yelled, his face red.

“No umpires,” my father said. “It’s not a strike unless he swings at it.”

Fine with Cowboy. He had another curve in his arsenal. It at first appeared quite harmless, a slow fat pitch headed toward the center of the plate. Hank reached back for a massive swing. The ball, however, broke down and away and bounced before Rico blocked it. Hank hit nothing but air. He lost his balance and fell across the plate, and when the Spanish chorus exploded again, I thought he might attack all of them. He stood up, squinted at Cowboy and mumbled something, then resumed his position at the plate.

Two outs, two strikes, two on. Cowboy finished him off with a fast-ball. Hank speared the bat into the ground when he finishing flailing at the pitch.

“Don’t throw the bat!” my father said loudly. “If you can’t be a sport, then don’t play.” We were walking onto the field as the Mexicans hurried off.

Hank gave my father a look of disgust, but he said nothing. For some reason it was determined that I would pitch. “Throw the first inning, Luke,” my father said. I didn’t want to. I was no match for Cowboy. We were about to be embarrassed at our own game.

Hank was at first, Bo at second, Dale at third. Tally was in left-center, hands on hips, and Trot was in right field looking for four-leaf clovers. What a defense! With my pitching we needed to put all of our fielders as far away from home plate as possible.

Miguel sent Roberto to the plate first, and I was sure this was deliberate, because the poor guy had never seen a baseball. He hit a lazy pop-up that my father caught at shortstop. Pepe hit a fly ball that my father caught behind second base. Two up, two outs, I was on a roll, but my luck was about to run out. The serious sticks lined up, one after the other, and hit baseballs all over our farm. I tried fastballs, curveballs, change-ups, it didn’t matter. They scored runs by the truckload, and had a delightful time doing it. I was miserable because I was getting shelled, but it was also amusing to watch the Mexicans dance and celebrate as the rout hit full stride.

My mother and Gran were sitting under a tree, watching the spectacle with Mr. and Mrs. Spruill. Everyone was accounted for except Pappy, who was still in town.

When they’d scored about ten runs, my father called time and walked to the mound. “You had enough?” he asked.

What a ridiculous question. “I suppose,” I said.

“Take a break,” he said.

“I can pitch,” Hank yelled from first base. My father hesitated for a second, then tossed him the ball. I wanted to go to right field, out with Trot, where there wasn’t much happening, but my coach said, “Go to first.”

I knew from experience that Hank Spruill had remarkable quickness. He had taken down the three Siscos in a matter of seconds. So it was no great surprise to see him throw a baseball as if he’d been throwing one for years. He looked confident taking his windup and catching the ball from Rico. He threw three nice fastballs by Luis, and the first inning massacre was over. Miguel informed my father that they had scored eleven runs. It seemed like fifty.

Cowboy returned to the mound and took up where he left off. Dale went down on strikes, and my father stepped to the plate. He anticipated a fastball, got one, and ripped it hard, a long fly ball that curved foul and landed deep in the cotton patch. Pablo went to search for it while we used my other ball. Under no circumstances would we leave the game until both baseballs were accounted for.

The second pitch was a hard curve, and my father’s knees buckled before he read the pitch. “That was a strike,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “It was also a major league curveball,” he said just loud enough to be heard but to no one in particular.