Boonville by Anderson Robert Mailer

Author:Anderson, Robert Mailer [Anderson, Robert Mailer]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Itzy, Kickass.to
ISBN: 9780062034427
Publisher: Harper Perennial
Published: 2012-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

11

There was no time to masturbate. John had arrived home three hours later than he had expected, even taking into consideration that he’d been waylaid. After Billy Chuck’s bleeder fell in for a hit, the Kurtses had been revived to face a two-run deficit and splitting headaches. The Spotted Owl Eaters squelched the rally and scored a run in their half of the seventh, but when Hank flied out with two outs and the bases loaded to become an “o-for” on the day, Stafford Logging preserved their victory and Kurtses left the dugout for a piece of Hank’s ass and both of his cleats. Shortly following, Big Jack coldcocked Billy Chuck in the handshake line, believing he was gloating too much for a man who had won the game on a Texas Leaguer. John was congratulating Cal when he found himself being shoved toward the backstop, the deputy twisting John’s right arm to his shoulder blades and forcing John to stand on his tiptoes.

“You don’t want no part of this,” Cal warned.

Hearing the brawl behind him, John felt it was the safest place he could be. He could see a mound of bodies covering home plate while those on the fringe slugged it out toe to toe, their fights consisting of one or two decisive punches. When the dust settled, Cal released him, making the transition from one of the boys to Johnny Law. In the bleachers, bouts were scored; Billy Chuck, K.O., Daryl had beaten Bo on points, Big Jack flattened a couple of other takers, Hank was barefoot and unconscious near the foul pole in right field, T.K.O. Overall, each team would feel they had won the fight. Bruises would mark individual losers. John could tell by the way the two teams eyed each other during the aftermath that there would be new scores to settle next season, and for the rest of their lives.

But with Hank’s cleats slung over his shoulder, Kurts was ready to celebrate. However, his brother was on his knees in the batter’s box searching for his lower lip. He had been at the bottom of a dog pile trying to open up a can of flaming whup-ass when somebody had chomped onto the brim of his mouth. John saw blood dribbling from Blindman’s chin as a Mexican woman led him from the field by the elbow. John didn’t say anything. Kurts sifted dirt, one hand pressed to his mouth. Blood lay bulbous around him like breaded chitlins. Kurts dusted off a clump.

“Don’t worry, it won’t look bad from my house,” his brother consoled. “I got Krazy Glue in the truck. We’ll patch you up, good as new.”

The players began to leave the field peacefully after Cal told them he was “on duty.” Women gathered their men. John could tell they would be in the stands next week, hoping for more of the same, excited by any beating they didn’t have to take part in. Meanwhile, the gofer wrestled an equipment bag into the rear of a truck while his mother called for a Stafford Logging player to hurry.

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