The first little boy possessed a cowlick and a mean swing, leaned in to hit Ginger’s first pitch of the day. When it came back at her, Ginger jumped to avoid being drilled in the shins. Tabby tried to grab the ball, but it sped past second base, veered left, and into the land of the Sinclairs. Cowlick made it to third on what should have been an easy play. Red Mabel tried to intimidate the kid as he stood on her base, but he was not having any of her trash talk.
“Your mother is married to her second cousin,” said Red Mabel.
“Small town,” said the kid. “Shit happens.”
A slatternly girl stepped up to the plate. Even from twenty feet away, her eye shadow visibly matched the green of her uniform. Ginger threw a strike. The T-ball girl decided this was a bad call, yelled something at Bucky about his teeth. The next pitch was solid, and the girl swung, but the ball glanced off her bat, an infield pop fly. Cowlick waited to see if Della would catch it, but it fell out of Della’s mitt and tumbled to the ground, and he tagged up and ran home. Eye Shadow made it to first base.
“Hustle!” Laverna kicked at the chain link, and it rang out through the field, just as the wind picked up again. The dog snapped the string in half, and ran excitedly into the outfield, only to sit obediently at Rachel’s feet.
A Native American boy was next. Laverna suspected he was related to Ronda, and studied her rover for any sign of acknowledgment. Instead, Ronda was watching the dog, and would’ve missed a smoke signal burning in center field. Ginger was angry, and she pitched way outside the box. The Native American kid walked to first, and Ginger turned around on the mound to compose herself.
“All right,” shouted Laverna, and stalked over to the children’s dugout. “My outfield needs a workout. I need a real hitter.”
A boy stood up from the bench and pulled on his batting gloves. The T-ball girl pushed him down, and stomped out of the dugout, drawing a neat furrow in the dirt with her plastic stand. She nodded at Martha Man Hands, who crouched behind home plate. Martha groaned as she stood, and Laverna could hear her knees crack. They would not need a catcher. The girl arranged the stand in front of home plate and cleared her throat, glaring at Bucky, who was offering advice to Martha about deep stretches. Finally the girl snapped.
“Pay attention!” The girl pointed at the ball in Bucky’s hand, and he blushed as he offered it to her. She refused to take it. She tapped the top of the T-ball stand with her bat. Bucky rolled his eyes and carefully rested the ball into the hole. The little girl was barely as tall as his waist, and she squinted into the field, as if the sun was especially bright. She pointed her bat toward Rachel and tapped three times on the plate.
“BE READY!” Laverna screamed to the outfield, just as the little girl leveled the bat and smashed the ball into the air, as threatened.
The ball sailed toward Rachel, the wind picking it up as it flew past first base, shifting it slightly away from the foul line. As usual, Rachel panicked and covered her face with her mitt. The dog remained sitting at her feet. Ronda walked to the ball, just as the little girl rounded second and barreled toward Red Mabel, who might have met her match. Instead, the girl cruised past, and Red Mabel scorched the outfield with profanities. Her invectives were drowned out by the cheering of the children in the dugout.
“You,” said Laverna. The girl grabbed her stand, and spat in the dirt near Martha. Expressionless, even though her teammates screamed and rattled the cage. “What’s your name?”
“Klemp,” said the girl. “I ain’t telling you my first name. That’s my right. This is America.”
“Jesus,” said Laverna. “Klemp, I want you to keep hitting.” Klemp propped her stand back into place. Laverna turned to Jake. “Get me a -dollar out of my purse.” Jake rooted around and pulled out a bill. “Go give it to Klemp.” Jake opened his mouth to protest, but Laverna had had enough sass from children for one day. “I can’t use my arms, for fuck’s sake!”
Klemp took the dollar, but didn’t have any pockets in her uniform. She tucked it into the inside of her sneaker.
“Keep hitting,” said Laverna. “Just like that.”
Klemp turned around and cleared her throat. This time, she pointed her bat at Bucky. She refused the ball, once again. “Do your job,” she said. Bucky made a wide berth around her as he rested it on top of the T-ball stand.
Klemp pointed her bat at the taller Sinclair. The taller Sinclair flinched, lowered herself into ready position, jean skirt dragging in the grass. She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, and Laverna’s hopes rose. They came crashing back down when Klemp blasted the ball far into left field, and it grazed the mitt of the shorter Sinclair, kept on flying.