The Fat Lady's Low, Sad Song by Brian Kaufman

Author:Brian Kaufman [Kaufman, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2018-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

XXIII

"After Jackie Robinson, the most important black in baseball history is Reggie Jackson. I really mean that.”

~Reggie Jackson

Game two in Provo, Grady is on the steps, grinding his teeth. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Runners on first and third, one down. His team is down by two runs. The Miners win one, lose one. They can’t seem to put together a winning streak. Without consistency, the team is mired near the bottom of the standings. The Provo Gulls are a terrible team—the only team with a worse record than the Miners. It would be nice to win two here. But unless something shakes loose, the game is going to slip away.

Willie Peterson is pitching. If the ace of the staff can’t get a win, what the hell can I do? Peterson is sweating like a fat girl in a sauna. The batter is Provo’s shortstop—a little guy with a scrub brush mustache.

Peterson’s pitch is inside. Ball one.

The batter steps out of the box, adjusts his uniform top, and then preens his mustache before stepping back. Peterson scowls like a Baptist in a porn arcade. Ha. Dad loved to say shit like that. Said he made it up himself. Probably bullshit, but who knows?

He squints at the catcher. Compton will call an outside pitch now. Inside, outside. Mix it up. For an instant, Grady wonders if another pitch inside would cross the batter, but no. Grady has made his pitch call philosophy clear to Compton. The catcher needs to play Grady Ball. Period.

Peterson takes his time before pitching. He’s logged a ton of innings already this season, and his arm might be getting tired. Grady closes that line of thought off in an instant. Peterson will be fine. Peterson has to be fine. Fucking Peterson.

The pitch comes in—outside—and the batter swings. He’s been waiting for a pitch he could turn on. He connects, and his follow-through is fully extended. The ball arcs toward the left field bleachers.

DeRay Montgomery is playing shallow in left field. The batter is a shortstop, after all. But this ball is hit deep, and Montgomery is out of position. He immediately turns to the fence, running full speed toward the wall.

Utah’s left field bleacher seats stand nine feet above the playing field, with a padded wall beneath them and the warning track. When the stadium was built, the fence featured chain links, but a local college outfielder caught his cleats in the chain and left the field on a stretcher, ankle broken. When the Gulls signed a lease, they replaced the chain link with padding.

Montgomery is fast—incredibly fast—but the ball is arcing toward the seats. There is no wind, so there’s nothing to hang the ball up or impede progress toward the bleachers.

Fans in the first several rows of the left field bleachers stand. Some have baseball gloves, hoping to snag a home run ball as a souvenir. The sound of the crowd is deafening.

Montgomery doesn’t look back.

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