Excerpt

“Crack of the bat, two steps back. Crack of the bat, two steps back.” Kev murmured to himself, focusing on the batter. He pounded his glove in anticipation of the next pitch. “Crack of the bat, two steps back.” The slogan burned itself into his mind the way the worst song on the radio fills one’s thoughts for hours on end, incessant and impossible to remove. The gentle warning of every Little League coach to his outfielders played on an endless loop in his mind as he patrolled the patchy centerfield grass of McDermott Field.

The mid-April sun was executing its nightly going-away party from the western sky in spectacular fashion. Dark oranges and deep reds melted together in a dazzling aerial display. The early evening was warm for this time of year, especially in New England. A perceptible buzz arose like ambient noise from behind the softball game as a chorus of insects droned in the deep woods beyond the fences where home run balls retired to spend their golden years. The huge light towers beyond left centerfield combined with the fading natural light to produce uncannily perfect conditions for beer league softball. A local fire station, House 71, provided the opposition to Kev’s team, aptly named the Goon Squad.

“Up one, fellas. Let’s get this guy now!” hollered third baseman Mike Demus in anticipation of the possible final out of the game. The other infielders chatted to themselves in similar manners.

The batter in question was a cocky, self-satisfied little man with a massive Napoleon complex. He took everything personally, even Demus’ innocuous comment. The little batter called for time and took an exaggerated step outside the box. He sent an oversized sneer down the third base chalk toward Demus in an act of retribution.

The Napoleonic loud mouth had been blathering incessantly throughout the game. A single in the first inning had elicited wild cheers and a double fist pump. He was nearly ejected in the fourth after being called out on a play at the plate when he suggested the umpire fornicate with his female parent. He was an arrogant hot-head with a terrible goatee, the kind of asshole that often filled out the periphery of the rosters of nearly every softball team.

Oozing smugness, Napoleon stepped out of the box again like he was Kirk Gibson in Game 1 and surveyed the situation at hand: runners on second and third, two outs, bottom of the seventh – the game on the line, and an opportunity for glory at stake. Kev and his teammates needed no extra incentive to win this game, but listening to this guy whoop in victory would be a fate worse than death.

Kev played a shallow center. It suited him. He was comprised of wiry, tentacle arms and long legs that eased into gazelle-like strides. He was a vacuum in the outfield, systematically tracking and devouring anything that was not hit on the ground. He was jarred from his contemplation by the sharp ping of the ball off the bat, instantly snapping his mind to the dubious situation that played out in front of him. His dilemma took the form of a screaming line drive slicing into right centerfield. Instinct and physicality replaced (or were perhaps inspired by) the simple slogan he had been steadying himself with an instant earlier. He exploded from a dead standstill to top speed like a bullet exiting the chamber.

Two different series of outcomes flashed in his mind, instantly supplanting the age-old baseball truism that had directed his first steps: back and to his left. If he caught it, the Goon Squad would win the game and clinch a bye in the postseason tournament. Should it drop in for a hit, the obese firefighters on second and third would score the tying and go-ahead runs easily and the hitter, that Napoleonic imbecile, would be the hero. Not on my watch, Kev thought.

Sensing a hit as he raced towards first, the little chirper began preparing his game-winning fist pump. Subconsciously, a vague outline of the ensuing tale of glory and high drama that he would tell to the whole station tomorrow began to percolate in his mind.

Kev weighed those options and decided against the second scenario. Ten yards from his original position and at break-neck speed, he courteously thanked gravity for its time and left his feet. Kev gauged his dive with Swiss Army precision. Leading with his gloved tentacle, he flew parallel to the withered grass. If those in attendance had been professional photographers rather than a smattering of wives and girlfriends, someone would have captured tomorrow’s front-page photo. In one fluid motion, he met and snared the missile one foot from the ground, tumbled into a near perfect tuck-and-roll that would have earned him 9.7s or 9.8s from the international judges, and popped up trotting toward the infield with the blasé stride of a Sunday jogger. Gotcha.