Play Ball!
Play Ball!
by Dave Wright
The two pickup trucks met head-to-head on a side street in Caboose, Kentucky, a town nestled in the backwaters of the Ohio River. The chrome-filled Ford F-250 roared in reverse, its Confederate flag waving from one side of the bed and an obsolete political flag saluting from the other. An older model Dodge sped forward in synch with the Ford, intimidating it with its rusty bumper. A stop sign, usually ignored by the driver of the flashy Ford appeared in its rear-view window. The busy traffic required a snap decision—to abide by the law or to hope for mercy from a throng of impatient commuters. The driver of the Ford chose poorly.
When the Ford braked to a halt at the intersection, the driver of the dilapidated Dodge opened his door, pulled an aluminum softball bat from behind the seat, and began to beat the shit out of the headlights, the rear-view mirrors, and for good measure, the passenger-side front windshield; then he calmly returned to his rusty Dodge.
Daddy turned to me when he jumped into the worn seat. “Fasten your seat belt, Sweetie. That should teach that som’bitch a lesson he ain’t gonna ferget soon.”
I was twelve years old at the time, and had been peering over the dashboard. “Way to go, Daddy,” I said between my two front teeth—still the predominant feature of my face. When I looked in a mirror, I thought I looked like a fawn-colored rabbit. “That Roscoe sure is an asshole,” I grumbled.
“Watch yore tongue, young lady,” cautioned Daddy. “We both know he’s a prick, but a girl ain’t supposed to talk thata way.”
Daddy and Roscoe had been friends for as long as I can remember, but there was something about Roscoe that made me uncomfortable. I felt a tingle of fear whenever he was around.
“Just sayin’,” I sniffed.
My hair, generally resistant to a brush or comb, hung in disarray over my right eye. “Who was the woman with him?” I asked as I readjusted my belt and Daddy jerked the Dodge in reverse.
“That ain’t no concern a’ your’n,” said Daddy as he squealed the tires.
“But she looked really frightened,” I said, trying to control my own fright.
“She be all right,” said Daddy confidently. “Roscoe the man needin’ a lesson he’ya. That pretty li’l gal with ‘im is what is called a ‘innocent bystander.’”
We tore through town with Daddy repeatedly checking the rear-view mirror. I looked at the weapon he had used to demolish the Ford’s headlights. “Did you hurt your favorite bat, Daddy?” I asked with an impish grin.
Daddy lives for softball. The first gift I can remember was a whiffle ball and bat. When I moved on to T-ball, he got me a leather glove, a miniature wood bat, and a T-shirt with the inscription, “Born to Bat Balls.” I have not let him down.
“No, darlin’,” he said. “The bat is in perfect shape for tonight’s game. I’ll drop ya’ off at Granny’s and pick ya’ up after work.”
Daddy’s name is Roy—Roy Al Deringer—a fitting name for a little man with an explosive temper. His five-foot-five frame sports a wiry build that is held in check by a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and an off-white T-shirt. A sinewy arm with a farmer tan emerges from each sleeve.
He pulled up to the curb by Granny’s green rambler, a home she purchased with the money from the sale of the farm after Pappy passed.
Daddy helped me out of the front seat. “You okay?” he asked.
I was still a little shaky, but wanting to show my bravery, I took a deep breath and said, “I’m fine, Daddy.”
“See ya’ tonight, Sugar,” he said. “I’m off t’ the sweat shop. We’ll go to the game after supper at Dairy Queen.”
“Hurry back,” I said as I waved goodbye.
Daddy works an eight-hour shift at Kindlewood Production, a factory that makes disposable furniture. The cabinets are fitted together with screws, but six months into their short life expectancy, most of the screws pull away from the composite plywood and fall to the floor. Innovative owners replace the screws with duct tape before moving the furniture to its final show room on some littered boulevard.
I walked up the sidewalk to Granny’s front door and rang the doorbell. Granny—that is, granny on my momma’s side—is a block of a woman with strands of greying hair streaking through a mass of black curls. She opened the door. “Hi, Candy. C’mon in,” she said as she gave me a hug that squeezed the wind out of me. “Did you sleep well, Sweetie?”
I caught my breath and paused to consider my answer. I decided on a simple, “Yah. Fine.”
“How about some eggs and grits before we start our day?” she smiled good-naturedly. “We gotta’ put a little meat on those bones.”
“Thanks,” I said, becoming self-conscious of my knobby knees. “Daddy didn’t have time to make breakfast this morning. I’m starving.”
While Granny set to work in the kitchen, I opened the Daily Dispatch and glanced at the headlines: “Drug Deal Busted,” “Fight Broken Up at Local Tavern,” “Legislature Passes Voting Restrictions,” and “Local Sheriff Accused of Accepting Bribe.”
I shook my head. “Have you read the newspaper this morning, Granny?” I called to the kitchen.
“Stick to the funnies, Candy,” Granny called back. The eggs and grits sizzled in the lard. “I’ve told you a million times to lay off the news. It’s no good for a young mind like yours.”
I had learned to read at an early age—by the time I was five, I am told. When I tired of the “Harry Potter” and “The Girl Who…” books, I started in on the newspaper’s short sentences and narrow columns. The writing wasn’t as good, but the content was more interesting to me. “But Granny,” I said in defense. “You read this newspaper front to back every morning. I’m just trying to keep up with you.”
“Well, if you must,” said Granny as she set the plate of steaming food in front of me, “read the details about voting restrictions.”
The newspaper leans to the right, but Granny is way off in left field. She spouts daily editorials defending the underdogs and less fortunate. Maybe that’s why she became my favorite teacher and second parent.
Momma ran out on us when I was three, taking everything but the dirt from our two-bedroom apartment. Momma generously included me in the taking, but I eventually found out I was simply a hostage for child support payments. The deal was consummated two weeks later when Momma returned me and a bundle of dirty clothes to the apartment. Daddy was there with the divorce papers and Granny was there to administer a blazing lecture. After Daddy closed the door on Momma he said, “Won’t have to worry about her no more—long as the check’s in the mail. Good riddance.” I think Granny felt so bad about having raised such a worthless daughter, that she pledged to do better with me.
Granny sat across from me as I inhaled my eggs and grits. “Soon as you’re done with those eggs, we’re goin’ downtown. There’s a big rally to protest the latest move by our governor and his posse of bigots to limit our voting rights. They are doing their darndest to keep the blacks and older people like me from voting.”
I wiped a bit of yolk from my lip with my sleeve and said, “That sounds exciting. Can I carry a sign or something?”
“Use a napkin,” she snapped. “Haven’t I shown you better manners than that?”
“And no,” she continued, “you won’t be carrying a sign. I just want to show you a little bit of the struggle that has allowed us all to vote.”
On the drive downtown in Granny’s older-model Lincoln Continental, a boat that floated around corners, Granny offered up a history lecture. She told about Martin Luther King and the march from Selma to Montgomery, and how the Voting Rights Act soon followed. She told me about the Fifteenth Amendment to the Constitution that says the right to vote cannot be denied “on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.”
Granny’s sermon on voting distracted me from the assault on the truck that morning—and what had prompted it. “What’s servitude?” I asked as she maneuvered the boat into a parking spot.
“Slavery, Candy,” she replied, as we stepped onto the sidewalk. “Something all of us white folks ought to be ashamed of.”
I had been bored with school ever since Daddy enrolled me in the first grade. I couldn’t wait to go to Granny’s after school. That’s where my real education took place. Granny didn’t get a formal education, but she is the smartest person I know. She showed me how to love reading and how it makes life more interesting. It makes me ask more questions.
“If there is an amendment that guarantees the right to vote,” I said, “what’s the big deal?”
Granny folded her gnarly fingers around mine as we walked toward a multi-racial crowd that had gathered in front of the county courthouse. “Each state has the right to establish its own voting process,” she explained, “and some states have pulled all sorts of shenanigans to dodge that amendment—like charging poll taxes. The twenty-fourth amendment tightened up that loophole, but now they are trying to limit voting times, to restrict voting by mail, and they’re even trying to prevent people from handing out water to those standing in line to vote. That’s why we are here.”
“Why are you so interested in helping Afro-Americans? You’re not black, and I’m not black.”
“I’m a woman. We didn’t get the right to vote until 1920 when the Nineteenth Amendment was passed. But it’s more personal for me.”
We decided to sit under the shade of a sprawling oak tree while we waited for the program to begin. I folded my legs beneath me as I sat down and noticed how my legs had outgrown my slacks. I used to see only my ankles; now half my calves were exposed.
Granny continued her story. “You see, back when Pappy and I lived on the farm, a negro fella kept us from bankruptcy. Justus Valore was his name. He was our hired man—and he worked harder than both of us put together milking our cows and getting the crops in on time. And in all those years, as soon as Pappy and I stepped into the house, all Pappy could say was, ‘that lazy nigger this,’ and ‘that lazy nigger that.’” Granny spat the words from her mouth as if she’d just swallowed a lemon. “Pappy was all talk and no go,” she said as she rested her back against the tree. “He was a miserable man. I don’t know what I saw in him, but I guess when you’re sixteen, you’ve got tunnel vision.” Granny looked me in the eye and smiled again. “I guess I want you to see more clearly than I did.”
“Didn’t you ever love Pappy?” I asked, now far more interested in Granny’s story than what was happening on the courthouse steps.
“Not really,” she sighed. “I got pregnant with your momma when I was sixteen, dropped out of school, and married Pappy before she was born. We moved in with Pappy’s parents, who died a few years later. Pappy and I took over the farm and lived there until I sold it after Pappy passed away. That was nine years ago—when you were three.”
“That’s when Momma left us!” I said, suddenly putting the timeline together.
“That’s right, Sweetie,” Granny said as she looked again toward the gathering crowd. “When Pappy died, I couldn’t take care of the farm, and I felt I owed Justus more than a thank you. I decided to sell the farm and give half to Justus. The other half I used to buy the house in town.”
“That was pretty generous,” I said, my blue eyes open wide.
“That’s true,” said Granny wistfully, “but Kay Ellen has never forgiven me for it. You see,” she said, looking at me again, “your momma thought I had a closer relationship to Justus than simply that of a hired hand.” She winked at me and smoothed her flowered dress. “She was right…to a certain extent—nothing physical, you know, but I could talk to Justus. Mr. Valaore loved books the same way I did. Pappy didn’t even read road signs.”
“Is that why you took the job at the library?”
“Of course. That’s part of the reason. I needed the money, but as a library assistant,” she said proudly, “I get the first chance to read the books that come in, and I have a flexible schedule so I can spend time with you.” She gave me another squeeze—one more gentle than the one that met me at the door.
“Couldn’t Momma see that you and Mr. Valore just liked to talk?” I asked squirming away. “Why was that so wrong?”
“Kay Ellen was a daddy’s girl. Your momma spent every moment with Pappy when she was a child, following him around like a puppy.” Granny wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, Kay Ellen picked up all his vices too—drinkin’ when she was your age, using the “N” word—even around Justus, and skipping school whenever Pappy had an errand to run.”
Granny’s voice seemed to catch in her throat. “I warned her about making hasty choices, but despite my protests, she followed directly in my footsteps.” Granny hung her head in dismay. “Kay Ellen professed true love with the first boy who kissed her on the lips. That was your daddy. The only remnant of their true love,” she said bitterly, “is carved in a maple tree on the school playground: Roy Al + Kay El surrounded by a heart. It’s still there the last time I checked.”
Granny stretched to get up from under the tree. “Not that your daddy is that bad of a fella, but I always worry about his violent temper.” She offered a hand to help me to my feet. “Has he ever laid a hand on you?” she demanded.
“No. Never, Granny,” I said. “He won’t let nothin’ happen to me.”
“Anything,” she corrected.
“Well,” she warned, “you make sure to tell me if he or anyone else tries to hurt you.”
I swallowed hard, wondering if I should tell Granny what happened last night. Just as I was about to say something, the key-note speaker stepped to the microphone on the courthouse steps. “Welcome, brothers and sisters!” he shouted. “We are gathered here to protect our right to vote, a right guaranteed by our constitution.” The crowd roared its approval while Granny and I moved closer to listen.
When the speech was over, and the crowd was encouraged to march down main street, Granny decided that I had seen enough. “Let’s go home, Candy,” she advised. “I just wanted to give you a taste of a peaceful demonstration.”
We began to stroll back to Granny’s car. Still curious about Granny and Justus I asked, “What’s Mr. Valore doing now? Do you still see him?”
“Justus keeps your daddy under control at the factory,” she said with a chuckle.
“Justus works at Kindlewood Production?” I asked, incredulous.
Granny let out a howl of laughter. “He’s your daddy’s foreman! Hasn’t he told you that?”
“No,” I replied. “Never says much about work.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Granny. “He’s too proud to advertise that he works for a black man.” She laughed again. “Justus needed a new job after I sold the farm. He used the money I gave him to buy a house on the other side of town. He tried to get a job at a more reputable company, but because of his color, he had to settle for Kindlewood. I hear he got married recently.”
After I climbed into the passenger seat of the Lincoln boat, I turned to Granny and said nervously, “I needed to use that protective device you gave me last night.”
She turned off the car and looked at me sternly. “You’re too damn young to have sex,” she cursed.
“No! No! Not the condom,” I whined. “The hotshot—you know that hand-held gadget with the two probes that you and Pappy used to load stubborn cows on a trailer. You called it a poor-man’s taser.”
“Oh. Thank god,” she said, relieved. “Wait a minute. Why in the world did you need to use that thing? It was only supposed to be used in emergencies. Did you need to zap a bully from school?”
“No. I can take care of bullies,” I assured her. “If anyone pushes me around at school, I just warn them that Daddy will track them down. They know about ‘Wild Man Roy.’ They leave me alone after that.”
“What happened, Candy?” she said as she rolled down the windows and sat back to listen. “I’m sorry. After all I have explained to you about sex, I should have known better than to assume you dared to open that Pandora’s Box.”
“It wasn’t that, but it was pretty bad,” I choked.
“Take your time, Baby. We’ve got all day.”
“Daddy had Roscoe over to watch the ball game last night, and they’d had a couple of beers. I listened to them laugh and cheer when the home team got a hit or scored a run. I must have fallen asleep by the seventh inning. I think the game had gotten boring, because the whole house was quiet.”
I began to squirm in my seat, worried about how to explain what happened next. “It must have been around eleven o’clock,” I continued, “when I heard the doorknob to my room rattle. I saw Roscoe’s silhouette in the doorway. He shushed me and said he was looking for his jacket. He said Daddy fell asleep on the couch and he was ready to go home. Then he closed the door behind him and came over to my bed.”
I was alone in my room with Roscoe. I was doing more than tingling now. I was sweating in fear.
“I never liked that man, Granny,” I said with tears running down both cheeks. “He gives me the creeps.”
“That sonofabitch!” exploded Granny. “Why didn’t you tell Roy Al that you don’t feel comfortable around him?”
“I could always find an excuse not to be alone with him,” I pleaded, “but Daddy doesn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to chase away his best buddy.”
“I understand, Honey,” Granny said, calming briefly, “but I think it’s best that I hear the full story.”
“I sleep with that hotshot under my pillow, like you told me to. You thought I might need to use it against Daddy, but I swear, Daddy’s never laid a hand on me.”
“Glad to hear it, Baby. Go on.”
I took another deep breath. “When Roscoe pulled the covers off me and reached for my pajamas, I grabbed the hotshot from under the pillow. It was so sweaty in my hands, I almost dropped it. He tried to pin my arms, but I was able to push the two probes against his fat Adam’s apple and pushed the button. He let out a hoarse scream that frightened me about as much as seeing him in the doorway.”
I sat up straight and looked at Granny. “Daddy woke up, but Roscoe had time to run from my room and out of the house. A few seconds later Daddy came busting in my room and shouted, “’What the hell happened, Sweetie?’ When I told him, he just about went berserk!”
Granny moved across the bench seat to give me another hug. “Oh, you poor girl,” she cooed. “What are we going to do now? Here I am worried about keeping our right to vote, and I’ve got a granddaughter that just joined the ‘Me Too’ movement. What an asshole.”
I smiled briefly. “I hope you’re talking about Roscoe,” I laughed as she released me from her grip. “That’s what I called him after Daddy beat the crap out of his truck.”
Granny looked at me warily. “Tell me what ‘Wild Man Roy’ did now.”
“Daddy tried to chase after Roscoe in the middle of the night, but I told him I was too scared to be left in the house alone after what had just happened. We went to the kitchen table and pulled out two big glasses of milk and those chocolate chip cookies that you made for us last week. Mmm. Were they good!”
“Nothing like chocolate chip cookies to prevent a life of therapy,” Granny quipped. “I hope they worked.”
“The cookies are gone,” I said, “but can you make more soon?” I cocked my head and raised my eyebrows inquisitively.
“No problem, Honey. There’s plenty more where they came from. What else happened?”
“I told Daddy that Roscoe didn’t hurt me, and I showed him the hotshot. He couldn’t believe that his little girl could defend herself. I reminded him that I had twelve years of watching him. He chuckled at that and said, ‘That’s my girl.’ By the time the cookies were gone, he said that he’d deal with Roscoe in the morning. Then he tucked me into bed and told me that no one else would ever bother me again. I fell asleep and didn’t wake up ‘til I smelled Daddy’s coffee early this morning.”
Roscoe and Daddy had been best friends in high school. They had shared a distain for education and a delight in truancy. They spent their days smoking in the school parking lot and plotting which out-house to topple in the black neighborhood on the outskirts of town.
When Momma got pregnant with me, it gave Daddy the perfect excuse to drop out of school. But after I was born, he made a few big changes in his life. He quit smoking and got a job. He must have felt a sense of responsibility for the first time in his life. Roscoe, on the other hand, never got the hang of “responsibility.” Although he squeaked through graduation, an achievement he never lets Daddy forget, Roscoe only has managed to hold part-time, minimum-wage jobs. Most of his paycheck goes directly to the Ford dealership.
After Granny turned on the ignition and eased her Lincoln barge out of its slip by the curb, I told her about our altercation with Roscoe’s pickup. Granny rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I suppose Roy Al will be charged with assault with a baseball bat,” she mused.
“Can you assault a truck?” I inquired. “What about me?”
“I’m sorry, Sweetie,” said Granny softly. “That was thoughtless of me. I’ll have to talk to Roy Al before we decide how to proceed.”
“Come to the game with us,” I said. “Daddy said he is going to play ball tonight after he takes me to Dairy Queen.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there this evening after Roy Al picks you up this afternoon.”
****
The weather was sticky and hot when Daddy’s Dodge beater followed Granny’s Lincoln into the ballpark. We were surprised to see Roscoe’s blinded Ford on the other side of the lot. Oh. Oh, I thought. Another confrontation coming up. Daddy smiled in expectation. Nothing worries Daddy—except a lack of conflict.
Granny joined us in the parking lot as Daddy slipped on his Kindlewood Flames jersey, named after his place of employment. The logo on his jersey was an orange flame shooting from a three-legged footstool. Daddy pulled out the battered weapon he had used on the truck that morning and spit in his glove. “Y’all have a seat in the stands,” he said. “I’ll meet you after we trounce these pussies.”
“Does he always talk like that?” Granny asked as she walked with me to the bleachers. “You’d think he’d clean up his act—at least when you’re around.”
“I’m pretty used to it,” I said with a shrug. “It’s how everybody talks in school anyway.”
“Good grief,” said Granny. “Maybe I need to find you a different school.”
As we settled into our seats in the bleachers, I squinted into the setting sun. “Look there, Granny,” I said pointing to the field. “It looks like Roscoe is playing third base for the Hooterville Clams.” His team is sponsored by a seafood restaurant in a neighboring town that has a reputation for serving day-old clam chowder.
Roscoe pointed at Daddy who was warming up next to the Kindlewood Flames dugout. Roscoe, whose nickname on the field is ‘The Bruiser,’ extended his forefinger with his thumb up, then jerked his arm as if he had fired a pistol. “This is not good,” said Granny, who looked to see Daddy’s reaction. Daddy just beamed at Roscoe with a toothy smile and waved.
“Oh boy,” she exclaimed again. “This will be a game to remember.”
The Kindlewood Flames took the field first with Daddy sauntering to his fixed position at shortstop.
Roscoe the Bruiser was the leadoff batter for the Clams. Daddy started his constant stream of chatter. “Aye, Batta’ Batta,’ ya’ worthless piece a’ shit.”
The umpire called timeout before the Flames pitcher could deliver his first fast ball. He pointed to Daddy. “That’s your first warning, Roy Al,” he said taking a step over home plate. “This is a family-friendly sport.” The umpire adjusted his mask and returned to his position behind the catcher. “Play ball!”
The Bruiser laced the first pitch with a low-flying line drive between third and short. The third baseman had been hugging the line, and Roy dove, but just missed the ball. The flame on Roy’s jersey was snuffed out in a cloud of dust, and The Bruiser cruised safely to first.
The second batter popped out to short right field. The next batter drove a grounder to the second baseman who fielded the ball and flipped it to Roy. Roy avoided Roscoe’s slide that was an obvious attempt to take him out of the double play. Roy didn’t bother to touch the bag, and instead planted a cleated spike on Roscoe’s exposed ankle. The Bruiser cursed in pain as Roy delivered a strike to the first baseman for out number two.
“Next time I’m going to step on your balls, you pervert.” Roy Al warned as Roscoe jumped to his feet and hobbled to the bag.
“Next time,” winced Roscoe in a voice filled with gravel, “I’m not going to bother to slide.”
As the first inning ended with the score tied at one to one, a trim black man wearing a thin mustache and a leather fedora sat down next to Granny. “Hello Eileen,” greeted the man.
Granny turned to look. “Bless my soul!” she shouted. “Justus. How nice to see you. I didn’t know you were a softball fan.”
“I’m not much of a sports fan,” he confessed, “but I ordered the jerseys for the team and thought I ought to see how they fit.”
A striking thirty-something woman carrying two Diet Pepsis followed Justus to his seat. She wore a light blue blouse and a pair of white shorts. A dark bruise on her left thigh marred an otherwise perfect pair of pale legs. She handed Justus one of the soft drinks.
“Thank you, dear,” said Justus. “Christine, meet Eileen, my former employer. Eileen, I don’t think you’ve met my wife. This is Christine.”
The two women shook hands. “Pleased ta’ make yaw acquaintance, Eileen,” said Christine in a sticky southern drawl. “I’ve heard so many kind things about ya’.”
“I heard that Justus got married,” said Granny, sizing up Christine, “but I haven’t had the pleasure.” She turned to me and said, “This is Candy Deringer, my granddaughter.”
I stood, reached across Granny’s lap, shook hands with Justus and took a long look at his wife before shaking her hand as well. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I heard the story about how Mr. Valore helped save Granny’s farm from bankruptcy just this morning.”
“That’s a wondaful story,” agreed Christine. “And your Granny is most definitely a very generous woman.”
“Thank you, Christine,” said Granny. “He deserved it.”
“Well,” said Justus laughing, “let’s say it was a team effort.”
I nudged Granny after Justus and Christine took their seats on the bleachers. I whispered, “That’s the woman who was in the pickup with Roscoe this morning!”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” she whispered back.
Before she could say another word to me, Justus got her attention again. “Roy Al didn’t show up for work this morning, Eileen. He called in sick.” He looked out on the field. “Is that him playin’ shortstop? It’s not like him to miss work. I’ve even had to send him home if I notice he’s got a cough or a fever.”
“He’s definitely not sick—at least not sick with an infection,” said Granny, “Roy Al had a problem with Roscoe last night. He told Candy that he was going to work after he dropped her off at my house this morning…so I don’t know what he did with his day.”
“Funny thing,” said Christine, overhearing Granny’s comments. “I had a problem with Roscoe this mo’nin’, too. Justus and I only have one car, ya’ see, and Justus uses it to get to Kindlewood Production. The last few weeks Roscoe’s had a job at a gas station. He drives right by our place to get there, so he offered to drop me off on his way ta’ work.”
“That’s the main reason we’re here,” interjected Justus and putting a reassuring hand on Christine’s knee. “We gotta’ sort out this little problem with Roscoe and Christine.”
Roscoe had stepped up to the plate again. Christine gave him a cold stare as he was taking a few practice swings. “I thought it’d be okay to ride with him,” she continued, “and it was a lot easier than calling an Uber every morning—until this mo’nin, that is. Wish I’d called an Uber today—that’s for sure.”
“I wish you had too, Baby,” said Justus to Christine, “but we’ll get things sorted soon.”
Roscoe took a called strike and frowned at the umpire. He pointed the bat at Daddy, then swung at the next pitch. The bat flew out of his hands, sailing like a missile toward the shortstop position. I gasped as Daddy side-stepped the flying projectile. It came to rest at the edge of the outfield. Daddy picked up the bat and walked it back to the umpire. “Losin’ yore grip?” he called to Roscoe. “Ya’ notice I didn’t have no problem hangin’ onto my bat this mornin’.”
The smirk on Roscoe’s face hardened. “My hands are just a bit sweaty,” he rasped as he grabbed the bat from the umpire’s hand and waved it in the air. “This bat’s gonna’ do a lot more damage than what yours did. Just you wait.”
I noticed that a uniformed policeman had joined the spectators behind the Clams dugout. Christine noticed him too. She smiled and waved. “Good! He’s he’ya,” she swooned. “I didn’t know if he’d really show up after I filed my complaint this mornin’.”
“Yes,” confirmed Justus. “Christine filed a complaint with the police department. She told them that he would be at the game tonight.”
“Ya’ see this bruise he’ya?” Christine said, pointing to her thigh that was changing from blue to yellow. We all nodded our heads. “I know why they call that basta’d ‘The Bruiser,’” she said, now pointing to Roscoe. “He did this to me.”
I shuddered, trying to imagine what might have happened in the Ford pickup after Daddy gave it a thrashing.
While Roscoe and Daddy exchanged insults through the next several innings, Christine recounted how Roy Al had forced Roscoe’s pickup into the intersection, poked out its headlights with his softball bat, and then turned it on the windshield. She continued by sharing the details of her morning conversation with Roscoe in his pickup.
After Roy Al had returned to his pickup and drove away, Christine had said to Roscoe, “What in the wo’ld was that about?’”
“Nuthin’,” Roscoe had said. “I gotta’ get to work.”
“What’s wrong with yaw voice?” Christine had asked. “You’re croakin’ like an old bullfrog.”
He said nothing, pulled a hard U-turn and slammed on the accelerator.
“That wasn’t nuthin’, Roscoe! I don’t like this one bit.” She stared at him. “What are those two dots on your neck? Looks like a hickey from a vampire.”
“Shut your trap,” muttered Roscoe rubbing his neck.
“Let me outa’ this car this minute. I gotta call Justus—and then the police.”
“Don’t you dare call the police.”
Christine had pulled her cell phone out of her purse and was about to dial when Roscoe reached across the seat and gripped her thigh. Instead of pushing speed dial, Christine pushed ‘video record’ and hid the phone next to the passenger’s door.
“You breath one word of this to anyone,” Roscoe had threatened, “and I’ll squeeze more than your pretty little leg.”
At that moment, a police car approached the debilitated Ford. It flipped on its flashers and did a U-turn of its own.
“Goddammit,” croaked Roscoe. He pulled over and said to
Christine, “You let me do the talkin’.” The policeman approached the window
with a questioning look.
“Looks like more than a little accident,” said the officer. “Anybody hurt?” he asked looking across at Christine who was cowering against the passenger door.
“No sir,” said Roscoe, “just a little shaken up. That’s all. We’ll be fine.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll ride with you, officer,” Christine had said as she opened her door and jumped out. “Thanks fo’ the ride, Roscoe,” Christine said sweetly before she slammed the door and climbed into the squad car.
“You’re welcome, Christine,” Roscoe called after her gruffly. “Sorry about the accident…but remember what I said.”
After Roscoe collected the repair ticket from the officer and drove away, Christine rode to the police department to file her report.
“I’m proud of you, Christine,” said Justus, “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met.” He turned to Granny and me. “She called me from the police station and told me all about it when I picked her up.”
Christine smiled, then frowned. “Why in the wo’ld did Roscoe not tell that officer the truth about the damage to his truck?” she wondered aloud. “All I know is he can’t go ‘round squeezin’ a lady’s leg—‘specially right here.” She pointed again to the welt on her upper thigh.
“That’s for damned sure!” said Justus.
“I think those police were very impressed with my video,” Christine said with a nod of blond curls. Then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wonda’ what Roy Al was doin’ at the police station. He was comin’ in as I was goin’ out. After what I saw this mo’nin’, I’d a thought he’d be a man on the run.”
“I was just as surprised as Christine was,” said Justus. “When I heard that both those guys were going to be at the game tonight, I figured there’d be fireworks bigger than the Fourth of July!”
I turned my attention back to the game. I noticed that Daddy had tipped his hat to the policeman when he had arrived at the beginning of the second inning. This surprised me since Daddy, under most circumstances had no use for the law whatsoever. The policeman was watching Roscoe come to the plate to lead off the top of the fifth.
Roscoe blasted a hard shot to the gap between center and right. The right-fielder had to wait for the ball to bounce off the wall before scooping it up and firing it to the infield. Roscoe, greedy for a triple, ignored his third-base coach to hold at second and over-ran the bag. Daddy caught the strike thrown from the right-fielder in his gloved left hand. Roscoe decided he may as well try to make Roy Al drop the ball by ploughing into him. In a dance step that would have been the envy of a ballerina, Daddy leaped clear of The Bruiser and delivered a brutal tag with the gloved ball. It landed squarely in Roscoe’s crotch.
In an uncharacteristic show of restraint, Roy Al did not throw a punch in the melee that followed. He caught one of Roscoe’s punches to the gut and allowed another to glance off his cheek. By the time Roscoe wound up to throw another punch, the third baseman and pitcher had bear-hugged Roscoe into submission. The uniformed policeman and another cop in plain clothes ran on to the field.
“Roscoe, you’re under arrest for assault,” said the man in uniform. “It’s too bad your behavior is so predictable.”
Daddy’s left eye twinkled as it began to turn color. He said, “I told the policeman here about yaw feeble attempt to visit my daughter’s bedroom last night,” His grin morphed into a bitter glare. “The police said there ain’t enough proof to press charges, so I invited ‘im to the game.” Daddy nodded to the policeman who was escorting Roscoe off the field. “I told ya’ he couldn’t control his self.”
The plainclothes cop on the other side of Roscoe said, “You’re also under arrest for assaulting Christine Valore. She came to the police department and filed charges just before Roy Al paid us a visit.”
“I didn’t do nuthin’ to Christine,” cried Roscoe. “I was just givin’ her a ride to work when this maniac beat up my truck.”
“Christine has a video that shows otherwise, Roscoe,” explained the officer. “Come along peaceably.”
“But what about my truck?” yelped Roscoe.
“Sounds to me like it’s a small price to pay for what you did to the girl and to Christine. Even so, Roy Al agreed to pay for the damages if we agreed to come to the game tonight.”
“Thanks for comin’ boys,” Roy Al called to the trio as they left the field. “Hope you enjoyed the game.”
Daddy returned to his shortstop position, waved to me, and
shouted, “Let’s PLAY BALL!”
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