Trial and Error

Sixteen

His ball cap pulled low over his eyes to shade the sun, Bobby stood in right field, legs crossed, gloved hand brushing a mosquito from his neck. He watched his own elongated shadow stretch toward the outfield fence and tried to figure the exact angle of the sun. If he knew that number, he could compute the length of his shadow within ten centimeters.

His mind drifted. He wasn’t thinking about the pitcher or the batter or the consequences of a fly ball floating his way. He was thinking about the wad of bubble gum in his mouth that had lost its flavor, about the yellow jackets buzzing around the wildflowers, and about Rich Shactman.

What’s the best way to kill The Shit?

Poison?

The Beth Am Bobcats were ahead 9 to 6, no thanks to Bobby. He’d struck out twice and dribbled a feeble ground ball to the first baseman his last time up. So far, no one on the Plymouth Church Pioneers had hit a fly ball to right field.

One of the hexacyanides? Pour it in Shactman’s Coke.

The prick had clobbered two home runs, strutting across home plate each time, posing, chest thrust forward, as his father shot video.

Plastique? Blow him to kingdom come.

Bottom of the seventh inning, the last inning in the Palmetto Sunday School League. Bobby vaguely knew there were two outs. The game would be over any moment, and he could get out of the sun.

Speargun? Grandpop shoots Florida lobsters…when the Marine Patrol isn’t around.

Bobby wondered what was taking so long. Now he noticed the bases were loaded with Pioneers. He heard the clunk of metal bat hitting leather ball. He looked up.

Oh, shit.

Short fly ball over the second baseman’s head, into right field. Bobby took off, a flurry of elbows and knees. He wished he could run like Uncle Steve, smooth and fast.

“Catch it, dickwad!” Rich Shactman screamed from center field.

The ball reached its apogee; it started its descent. Bobby’s brain crackled.

Catch the ball and the game’s over.

If it drops in front of me, it’s only a single. One run scores; maybe two. We’re still ahead by a run.

Or I could dive and make the catch.

On Sports Center, they always show those diving catches on the Top Ten plays. Major leaguers make it look easy. Slide on your rump; reach out; grab the ball underhanded just above the grass; hoist the glove to show the ump you caught it clean.

Go for it!

Bobby tried to slide, but his legs tangled and he tumbled forward, arms spread, as if he’d been shot in the back. A second later, he felt a thump as the ball bounced off his butt and landed in the grass.

“Pick it up, dipshit!”

Shactman again, louder. Running toward Bobby, maybe to pummel him, maybe to grab the ball himself.

The runner from third walked home.

Bobby scrambled to his feet, whirled, located the ball just behind him.

The runner from second scored standing up.

Bobby picked up the ball, but for reasons known only to the gods of the game, he dropped it. Picked it up again, dropped it again. Shactman was shrieking.

The runner from first crossed the plate. The score was tied.

Bobby picked up the ball cleanly this time. The batter neared third base at full speed. The third base coach waved him around, betting Bobby couldn’t make a decent throw to the plate.

Plenty of time. I can do this.

Miguel Juarez, the husky catcher, a ringer on the Beth Am team, stood at the plate, waiting for the throw.

I can throw the ball to him on the fly. Yes, I can.

The batter rounded third, head down, hauling ass for home. Bobby remembered everything Uncle Steve had taught him. He planted his back foot and stepped forward, reaching down with his right arm and extending his left arm for balance. He kept his eyes on Miguel and came over the top, releasing the ball just after his arm passed over his head. The motion was smooth, and Bobby was amazed at how hard he’d thrown the ball.

“A cannon for an arm.” That’s what they say on Sports Center about Vladimir Guerrero.

The throw was right on line. Straight at Miguel Juarez, guarding home plate. This was gonna be AMAZING.

“What a throw by Bobby Solomon! Our top play tonight on ESPN. Does that kid have a gun or what?”

Hands on hips, Miguel looked up. Watched the ball sail over his head. Over the backstop. Over eight rows of bleachers. And land in the parking lot with the sound of glass shattering.

The batter scored and leapt into the arms of his ecstatic teammates. High-fiving, yelling, laughing, smacking one another on the shoulder, blowing bubbles with their gum. Final score: Plymouth Church Pioneers 10, Beth Am Bobcats 9.

“Gonna mess you up, dipshit.”

Rich Shactman jacked an elbow into Bobby’s gut, then trotted past him toward the dugout. Bobby dropped to one knee, thinking he might vomit, but he caught his breath and got back up.

Coach Kreindler gathered the team’s bats in front of the dugout.

“It’s him or me, Coach!” Shactman tossed his glove against the concrete block wall of the dugout.

Kreindler turned toward the boy, confused, the aluminum bats pinging against each other.

“The scouts from Gulliver and Ransom only come to the playoffs,” Shactman whined, “and we’ll never make them with Solomon messing up.”

“Nu? What would you have me do, Rich?”

“Throw Solomon off the team. I’m your star.”

“Gevalt.”

“So what’s it gonna be, Kreindler? Solomon or me?”

Bobby heard every word. Watched as Kreindler shot a worried look in his direction. But the coach never answered. Just kept gathering up bats and balls.

No. Not poison or explosives or a spear. There’s one thing I’m better at than Shactman. Swimming. I’m going to drown him.

SOLOMON’S LAWS

5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.