This story was published in San Diego Writer's Monthly, Apr/May 2002

DOUBLE PLAY

by

Tom Scanlan

Sandra watched her ten-year-old son pull the Little League shirt over his head, mussing the hair he'd just spent five long minutes combing and re-combing. She jingled the car keys.

"Move your tail, Billy."

"In a minute. I have to get my glove."

He emerged from his room, dangling the first baseman's mitt by its open strap. Sandra watched him coming down the stairs. She saw moistness, a trace of sadness, maybe even anger in his downcast eyes. His eyes avoided hers when he sighed, "O.K. Let's go."

"Tryouts today, hon. Thought you'd be a little more excited."

He brushed past her on his way to the car. "Let's just go."

She forced a smile. She'd moved here to Vista Buena after John had decided he couldn't cope with marriage and children. It seemed a fine place for Billy to grow up and make new friends. The schools were good and she loved the well-kept, green parks. Besides, companies here paid top dollar for computer programming, a skill she'd learned in adult school. She was good at programming. She always could work well alone. She just didn't like being alone. And she didn't want Billy to be alone.

She was not going to give in on this. She said, "Danny and Bobby will be there...and maybe Richie. Lots of the neighbor kids are trying out." Her eyes brightened. "It's a gorgeous ball park, and Vista Buena's one of the best teams in the league." Still no response. "And you'll meet lots of kids from your new school."

"I already met the ones I like. And not all of them are going out for Little League."

Sandra frowned. Maybe he would have reacted differently if John were still around, and this was his idea. Billy never seemed to notice that his dad could have cared less what his only son did or didn't do. She took Billy's hand, but he pulled it free and busied himself with buttoning his glove. The eyelet was tight, and the brass button hunkered tight against the new, unyielding leather. "I can do that for you." She bit down on her lip, even before the look he gave her confirmed that it was the wrong thing to say.

In the car, she glanced at Billy. He was staring out the window at nothing in particular. Her gaze shifted up to the rear view mirror. Her blue eyes staring back looked sad, even desperate. Like those of a little girl who was lost.

When she was Billy's age, she would have given anything for the chance to be with other kids, doing what everyone else was. But on that parched section of land in west Texas, where she'd grown from a small girl to a young woman, work came first. After school, she never played ball or watched the other kids play. She helped her sharecropper parents pick cotton.

The cotton field they worked was so large and the plants so tall that she rarely saw the stooped forms of her mom and dad. They'd see each other sometimes at the truck, where they dumped their cotton and rested a moment before gulping water from the canvas bag that hung from the door handle. Then it was back to the fields, picking white fiber from sharp pods, scratching her gloveless hands. Sandra turned the ignition key, hoping to shut out those images.

Nearing the park, she looked over at Billy again. "You know, Mrs. Wilson was telling me yesterday, when she brought over that home-made bread, that Jimmy and Bobby couldn't sleep, they're so excited about tryouts. Especially Bobby. He's trying out for pitcher this year."

Billy continued staring out the window, still fidgeting with his glove. That was something else that puzzled Sandra. When she was shopping for his uniform and asked the salesman about a glove, he said any kid would die for a first-baseman's mitt. So she spent the extra money, especially when she realized that now he wouldn't be standing alone in the outfield. But Billy had hardly touched the glove. Not since that afternoon he'd opened the box, and then tried to look surprised and pleased when he saw the gift she'd been hinting about all week. The sporting-goods store smell of neat's-foot glove oil that filled the car was just another reminder her gift to him had lain idle since that day.

Sandra would have been a junior in high school the year her mother passed away. But dad needed her on the farm. She remembered those mornings when friends walked past the field carrying their books, and she'd bend even lower into the cotton, hoping they wouldn't see her. Sometimes they did, though, and then they'd wave and call her name. She'd wave back, watching until they'd walked out of sight.

The worst part was the loneliness she'd feel afterwards. Just her and pa and all those acres of cotton. She missed being in school with friends, the after-school games, the Friday night dances and chatting about boys with her girl-friends.

Those days always ended with her alone in that dark, decrepit little house getting supper ready. Afterwards, it was just her and pa at the table, too tired to even talk much. Sometimes, maybe over a breaded drumstick, he'd look at her with his kind, pale-blue eyes and wink, and then his wrinkled, sunburned face would soften into a smile.

She pulled into the parking lot, and Billy jumped out the door before the car was fully stopped.

"See ya, mom." He smiled at her, an apology.

Seeing all the other kids lined up and playing, maybe he'd realize that this was going to be fun. She watched him stop, head hanging, to talk with one of the coaches. Then he trotted over and stood in one of the lines, still fidgeting with his glove, avoiding the other boys.

It was a Saturday morning, and most of the boys' fathers were there, standing near the sidelines or seated in the front rows of the green, wooden bleachers. She recognized Bobby's father. They were chatting, trying to look casual and uninterested, but she knew how important this day was for them. For a moment, she considered joining them, but she looked around and didn't see any mothers.

It was almost five when Sandra heard the Wilson's station wagon stop out front. She moved to the window, standing to one side so she'd see Billy but he wouldn't notice her looking out. He waved them off, and he was smiling when he walked up the front steps. Sandra felt relief. She was sitting on the couch, looking deeply interested in a newspaper story on rising unemployment, when Billy entered.

"Hi, mom." He made an exaggerated sniff. "Sure smells good. What's for supper? I'm starving."

She put down the newspaper. "Spaghetti. I knew you'd be hungry."

She watched him tug off his shirt and start for the stairs. He seemed cheerful enough, certainly better than when she'd dropped him off at the park. But he was in an awful hurry to get up to his room.

"Hon, aren't you going to tell me how tryouts went?"

He stopped on the bottom step and turned partly toward her. He looked apprehensive. That was strange, after a whole afternoon playing and being with so many friends. She would have been delirious.

"I've gotta' wash up first. I'll tell you afterwards." He started up the stairs. That's when Sandra noticed .

"Where's your glove, Billy?"

He paused four steps up, and without looking back said, "I loaned it to Bobby."

She barely heard him. She'd been so sure that he'd like that glove. "Well, why'd you do that? Bobby's pitching, isn't he?"

"He wasn't picked for pitcher."

"So why'd he borrow your glove?"

Billy grimaced and came back down the stairs. His face showed a 'now I'm gonna catch heck' look, but his eyes pleaded otherwise.

"'Cause he's playing first base."

Sandra said nothing for a few seconds, trying to separate her sense of confusion, disappointment and anger. "Aren't you playing first base?"

His eyes continued to ask forgiveness. "Bobby's played first before, mom. And he's taller than me. Besides, he really wanted to make first team. His dad was there."

Sandra felt the warmth in her face and the tightening in her chest. She remembered the fathers mingling and talking at the park.

"He played good, so Coach picked him." Sandra wasn't sure what to say, so she waited for Billy to continue. "So I'm letting him use it. I didn't think you'd mind."

She looked into his small, anxious face. Not mind? She had wanted to see him standing on first base, stretching high and catching the ball just before the runner's cleat touched the bag. And everyone cheering, and all his team mates giving him the thumbs-up and hollering, 'Way to go, Billy!'. And him just beaming. How could she not mind?

She tried to keep the hurt and anger out of her voice. "Billy, you know I picked that glove out special. I meant for you to use it, not Bobby or someone else."

"I know you did, mom. It's a really good mitt, too. Bobby says it's pro." He cleared his throat. "He wants to buy it. If it's OK with you."

"Well, of course it isn't. You'll need it on the second team."

"I'm not on the second team."

Her eyes widened, and for a minute she couldn't speak. Wasn't he going to play at all? Was he just going to watch from the bleachers, left out, missing all the fun? Her voice trembled. "I thought everyone got to play. If you go to practice and everything. The coaches give everyone a chance, even if it's just for part of a game."

He hung his head to one side. "I don't really want to be on the team, mom. I told the coach so. He said that was up to me."

Sandra didn't say any more. In her mind she saw a small child, standing alone in a large, green field. She hardly noticed when Billy turned and went up the stairs.

During dinner, Sandra watched Billy rolling the spaghetti fastidiously onto his fork. This was his second helping, and he'd said almost nothing.

"Did you get on OK with the other boys?"

Between slurps, "Sure."

"Well, you're new to them."

"I got on fine."

"How'd your glove work out?"

He smiled at her, then. "Great. Only missed a few tosses. Most of them too high. Coach said I could've made second team."

After that they didn't say much more. The garlic bread tasted too dry in Sandra's mouth, and the spaghetti wouldn't stay on her fork. Billy continued rolling spaghetti carefully onto his fork, avoiding her eyes.

The doorbell chimed, ending their silence. It was Richie.

"Can Billy play?"

Sandra turned from the door and looked into the dining room. Billy had cleaned his plate and gulped down the last of his milk.

"Looks like he'll be right with you."

As they hurried out the front door, she could hear parts of their conversation. There was joy and excitement in their high pitched, little-boy voices.

"...me, neither. Dad was kinda' upset, but he'll get over it."

"Same with my mom."

"...and no practice twice a week! And Saturdays free!"

"Yeah!"

Before she closed the front door, Sandra watched the two of them ride off on their bicycles. They were laughing and shouting and had already engaged each other in a furious race to the corner. She stood there watching until they were out of sight, their laughing only an echo.

Sandra took a deep breath and gently closed the door. She glanced at the dining room table, the empty plates. Suddenly she was crying, overwhelmed by almost forgotten memories of the happiness she had felt when her and pa were eating supper, and he had smiled at her.

The End