Part 10 (1/2)

Killer squatted lower.

”Ball four.”

Buck turned to me in the dugout. ”Well, I swear,” he whispered. ”I wouldn't have believed we could get that to work if you hadn't told me.”

I grinned. The team managed to put two runners on base before the first out hit the scoreboard. Boom Boom, our best hitter, was up next. I whispered instructions to her.

”What'd you tell her?” Buck asked.

”Secret girl stuff,” I said.

The whole team was standing now in the dugout, fingers grasping the fence like woodp.e.c.k.e.rs hanging on to tree bark. The pitch came. Boom Boom hit the ball. It went over the right fielder's head and rolled to the fence. As Boom Boom rounded second, our two base runners crossed the plate. The ball came in to the Baronettes' rattled second baseman. Just as I had hoped, she threw the ball over the third baseman's head and Boom Boom crossed the plate at a placid jog.

In the dugout, everyone, except me and Homer, of course, jumped up and down. Even Buck. I burst out laughing.

We scored two more runs that inning.

The Lady Mustangs held steady for the next couple of innings before the Baronettes went ahead by a run, then we caught up. The score was now Baronettes 6, Lady Mustangs 6. Soon we were down to the last inning. As the home team, we had the last bat. All the Baronettes had to do was keep us from scoring, and the game would go into extra innings. Our team had been lucky, so far. If there were extra innings, our luck would probably run out.

The Lady Mustangs' first two batters popped out. Finally, our girl Slick hit a low line drive and made it to second.

Little Ida was next at bat.

”I'm The Rabbit, I'm The Rabbit,” she chanted as she went to the plate. Following my instructions, she took her stance and squatted so low she looked like her nickname. All we needed was a hit or a mistake by the other team. As she crouched there, I could feel the tension. For not once-either in a practice session or any game-had Little Ida Walker actually hit the ball.

Even Homer seemed to be holding his breath.

Strike one. Strike two. Ida narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. The pitcher threw the ball a third time.

”Now, Rabbit, now!” I yelled.

For the first time all summer, Little Ida hit a ball. She slammed it. The ball dribbled straight down the right field line.

”Let it go foul!” the Bigelow coach yelled to his first baseman.

”Run, Bunny...uh...Furry...uh...Rabbit!” Buck screamed, swinging his arm in a circle toward first base.

Little Ida, too surprised to move, simply stood there.

”Run, Rabbit!” I cried. ”Use your brain and your feet! Show them how fast you are!”

She launched herself toward first base like a turquoise whirlwind. The ball rolled to a stop about halfway from first plate-still in fair territory. The catcher and the first baseman darted toward it at the same time, tripped each other, and sat down hard in the dust cloud Little Ida made as she flew by them. Slick headed for third. The catcher scrambled to her feet and threw wild to the surprised pitcher, who flailed at the ball hopelessly. It bypa.s.sed her glove and rolled between the shortstop and the second baseman as if it had eyes. They collided over it.

”Run!” screamed Buck.

Slick raced toward home. The Barronette second baseman finally picked up the ball and threw it to the pitcher. When the dust settled, Ida was safe at first base.

And Slick had scored the winning run.

”Home team scores,” the umpire called out. ”That's the game.”

Little Ida started to cry.

I rolled my chair to the field and grabbed her. ”You did it, Rabbit. We won the game. You got the winning RBI.”

”But I didn't get to run around the bases.”

”Doesn't matter. You hit the ball. The Lady Mustangs scored. You're a hero.”

The stands were screaming. The teams gave each other high fives. Then with Little Ida in my lap, the Lady Mustangs rolled my wheelchair around the diamond chanting ”Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit!”

It was a miracle. Homer neighed with excitement.

”You did it,” Hank said, grinning as he loped over and kissed me.

I shrugged. ”I just used my brain.”

”Well, use it some more. Come on.” He wheeled me to the next ball field, where the adult teams were warming up. I stationed myself and my wheelchair in the dugout of the Mossy Creek Mustangs with a lap desk and a scorebook. I penciled in the line-ups and told myself this was as good as the day was going to get. I'd accomplished a lot. I could bear to watch my friends, my neighbors, and my husband play softball without me.

We take our softball seriously in Mossy Creek. Things got tense right away when three Bigelow Baron batters, including the first woman to hit, got on base. Hank's pitching was, to put it mildly, interesting. ”Sort of looks like he's winding up to swat the back end of a cow,” I heard one of our teammates say. Everyone chortled.

I chewed on the end of my pencil. The next Bigelow batter, the right fielder, a shapely blonde, picked up a bat and sauntered to the plate, setting off a chorus of wolf whistles. ”That's Swee Purla's younger sister,” someone said. ”Interior decorator. Just like Swee. Mean as a snake in silk.”

She hit a hard line drive that careened off Hank's foot toward Little Ida's dad Robert, the first baseman. Robert scooped it up and stepped on the base. Next, the Bigelow catcher popped up. Two outs, bases still loaded. I pushed a sweaty strand of hair away from my forehead as a Bigelow banker about the size of Rush Limbaugh popped a short fly over the head of our wiry shortstop, Nail Delgado. The Barons scored their first run. Their pitcher, a woman, hit a dinger over first, and a second run scored.

Out in center field, Sandy Crane chewed a wad of gum, squinted with deadly intent, and crept forward. Her determined look said, No dingers are getting past me. When Hank let the next pitch go, I knew we were lost. We all watched in dismay as the Bigelow batter slapped the ball over Sandy's head. The ball rolled all the way to the fence. The Barons' runner held at third. The next batter struck out. We were lucky to be only three runs behind.

That's where it stayed for four innings. Bigelow 3, Mossy Creek 0. League rules had set the game at an hour and twenty minutes time or seven innings unless the score was tied. Our team finally scored two runs in the fifth. The crowd behind our home-team dugout went wild. I could hear the Lady Mustangs screaming in excitement. Little Ida's voice carried across the other fans when she yelled, ”Go, Coaches!”

But the crowd went silent when the Barons scored another run in the bottom of the fifth, putting us two runs behind. Nail Delgado went down with a pulled hamstring in the top of the sixth and Chief Royden-our catcher-got a phone call and had to leave the field. ”Two fender benders out on West Mossy Creek Road,” he said as he gathered his gear in the dugout. ”Sorry. We're short-handed during the holidays. And I promised Mutt he could have the Fourth off.”

Mutt ducked his head in grateful acknowledgement. He had a new girlfriend in the stands.

”Chief, I'll go,” Sandy called. She wanted to be a full-fledged police officer in the worst way. ”I can write up a ticket! I can make notes about the dents and the tire marks! I can take people's statements and yell at 'em for speedin'! Lemme go, Chief, uh, please?”

Amos Royden didn't bat an eye. ”Only one little problem. You're not a police officer. It would be illegal.”

”Picky, picky, Chief.”

He shook his head in amazement and left.

We were out of subst.i.tutes and almost out of time. Tension gripped the field like a tightly clenched fist. Olympic tryouts couldn't have been more serious. In the bottom of the seventh, we were still two runs behind. Sandy, our first batter, hit a grounder that bounced over the shortstop's head. Hank managed to get to first on a well-hit ball to right. When Regina Regina, our double-deck-named c.o.c.ktail waitress over at O'Day's Pub, popped up, things looked grim. Then we got a break; the Bigelow pitcher walked Mutt, the next batter.

One out and the bases loaded; we still had a chance. Behind me, in the silence, I heard a low murmur. Buck Looney, our most dependable homerun hitter, was up. The crowd's applause rose and took on a cadence. Buck glanced toward the stands, c.o.c.ked his head for a moment, then nodded. ”Casey,” he snapped, ”Get a bat. You're up.” He turned to the umpire. ”We're putting in Casey Blackshear for Buck Looney.”

My mouth fell open. ”Me?”

”You. Everybody on this team plays. It's one of my rules.”