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“Not a bad idea,” I said. “But back to the point, I think we could do a boys versus girls game. Let Mrs. Yancy run the girls’ team, I’ll run the boys’, and we can put posters all around the school to get the rivalry going. Then we could sell tickets to the game and concessions and stuff and put all the money toward something useful.”
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “That’s a damn fine idea, Graham. A damn fine idea. I know just what we would raise the money for, too.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Texans are really good at funding sports,” he said. “But our auditorium leaves a lot to be desired. Poor Miss Taylor has been begging to get the funds to update the stage and theater. I can’t seem to talk the superintendent into it, but if we did a fundraiser…”
I grinned.
“I think that would work out great,” I said. “I have a feeling Mallory will be thrilled.”
She was, in fact, thrilled.
The school was proud of their theater department on paper, but it was hard to get anyone to commit funds to it. They had their own fundraiser every year, but it was a hell of a hard task to get anyone to buy peanuts when the Boy Scouts had already barked up that tree months before. So Mallory had to make do with the budget her department was assigned, which was never enough. I had watched on more than one occasion her buying students costumes and supplies for building sets with her own money.
Immediately, she had ideas for promoting the game, taking the idea I had of putting up posters and utilizing the art department to make wild comic book-style advertisements. Most of them were drawings of me, with a ridiculous amount of bicep muscles, throwing a ball that was fully engulfed in fire, versus Mrs. Yancy swinging a bat that wasalsoon fire and looking like she ate Volkswagens for lunch.
I laughed when she showed me, but they seemed effective. Kids were talking about the rivalry, and every day I was teased by students about how it would feel to be beat by Mrs. Yancy. I told them that I would be proud to be defeated by such a terrific Olympian. It was just unfortunate that I would never get the opportunity to, since I was going to strike her out every time she came to the plate.
It was all in good fun, and Mrs. Yancy, who I came to know as Jessie, and I had a good time figuring out how to get the students to buy into a deeper rivalry. Jessie suggested that I put her son on my team as a coach, which I thought was hilarious, since he was nine, and having all of us take advice from him and have him “manage” the game would be adorable.
I wasn’t prepared for how she would ‘get me back.’
“You’re what now?” I asked, blinking at Mallory.
She was standing in front of me, holding a baseball bat and grinning like it was the funniest thing she had ever heard.
“Jessie put me on the faculty team,” she said. “I’m going to play right field.”
“Have… you ever played before?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But I’ve watched a lot of baseball.”
“Were you actually watching the game or were you watching me?” I asked.
“Not relevant,” she said, smiling.
“Uh huh,” I said. “So you want to practice?”
“I thought it would be good to get some practice in with you. You know, getting to know the enemy and all.”
“Then by all means,” I said, “step up to the plate.”
I grabbed the bucket of balls and took them with me to the mound. We had decided that the game would be softball rather than baseball, which meant that I needed to get used to throwing a ball that was three times the size I was used to and underhand at that. But I wasn’t planning to pitch much, just an inning or two to satisfy the people who came to watch, otherwise I would overwork my arm, even tossing lightly.
Standing on the mound, the feeling was at once surreal and humorous. For all intents and purposes, this was where my career had begun. Coaches and scouts came to fill the stands around this field to watch me practice and work out as well as pitch game after game. Yet here I was, a broken-down shell of what I once was, with an arm that will never be what it was, standing on the mound with this oversized softball in my hand, staring down at my girlfriend comically swinging a bat and pretending to spit at the plate.
I shook my head. Life was one wild ride sometimes.
I wound up gently and tossed the ball. By the time she started to take the step toward the ball, I knew she was going to be late. It was still funny when she swung so hard that she twisted around and fell straight down on her ass.
“Stop laughing,” she shouted through her own laughter.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just so impressed.”
“Shut up,” she laughed. “Next time, I’m hitting a home run. You watch.”
I shuffled back into position to take another pitch, grabbed another ball, and repeated exactly the motion that I had before. As usual, the ball went directly where I wanted it to go. It didn’t matter. She completely whiffed on it anyway.
