Fragile Beasts (51 page)

“Sure,” I say.

We race up the steps together. At the door Shelby turns to me and holds me in her amber eyes sparked with flecks of spring green light.

“My aunt Candace was a beautiful woman,” she says proudly.

“I’m not surprised,” I tell her.

H
ill finally achieving the state title that has eluded him during his twenty years of coaching high school baseball.

If it happens, it won’t be today. This is only round one of the western region play-offs. It’s the game we lost last year on a Brent Richmond error. A win will take us on to the quarterfinals and then the semifinals and hopefully the championship game.

I explain all this to Miss Jack as we make our way to our seats. She’s moving very slowly and leaning heavily on her cane. It’s been over two weeks since she got hurt, but old people don’t heal very fast. According to Luis, sometimes they don’t heal at all. She’s still in a lot of pain, but she never complains.

Luis was against this idea. He said it was too soon for her to go out and especially for her to do something as exhausting and potentially dangerous to her old, brittle bones as maneuver her way through jostling crowds of enthusiastic baseball fans and then sit on a hard seat for hours in the sun.

The more he told her she couldn’t go, the more she dug her heels in and insisted on going, until finally it got to the point where I couldn’t tell if Luis was telling her she couldn’t go on purpose because he knew that would make her go.

Eventually a compromise was reached where Miss Jack promised to wear a sun hat and take bottled water with her, and I had to assure Luis I’d stay by her side every minute.

When I asked Luis why he didn’t want to come along with us, he said it wasn’t his place.

The only remaining problem was how to get there. The drive to Altoona and the Blair County Ballpark was over an hour and if Luis didn’t want to stay
for the game, it didn’t make much sense for him to drive all that distance, back and forth, twice in one day.

Miss Jack suggested he could drop us off and stay in Altoona and soak up the culture while we watched the game. He said something elaborate to her in Spanish. I didn’t understand any of it except the word
cajones
.

Miss Jack and I started joking about who was going to drive—her or me—if Luis didn’t want to take us. He said even more stuff to her in Spanish.

Our problem solved itself when Miss Jack got a phone call from Shelby’s mom telling her she’d love to attend the big game.

Miss Jack got off the phone with a puzzled look on her face and explained to me and Luis that apparently Rae Ann was a closet baseball fan and was briefly engaged to a minor-league player in Miami before she met Mr. Jack, a Cuban named Pedro Juan.

Miss Jack and Luis had a lot to say about that in Spanish to each other.

Luis saw us off this morning after sticking some sunblock, a pack of moist towelettes, a pretty Spanish fan, and a couple bottles of water into Mrs. Jack’s huge orange straw purse decorated with palm trees and pineapples. I explained about the concession stands, but he insisted on sending their own water.

Mrs. Jack looked and smelled like she was off to spend a day at the beach. She had on a short, sleeveless turquoise-blue sundress and a matching ball cap, painful-looking strappy sandals covered in silver jewels, mirrored sunglasses, and tons of wooden and glass bead necklaces draped around her neck like Hawaiian leis. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her skin glistened with coconut-scented oil.

Miss Jack looked like she was going to an English tea party with the queen. Her dress was long and loose, made of a gauzy green material the same shade as a katydid’s wings, and her hat was broad brimmed, natural straw, and held on to her head with a sheer scarf tied over it, the same color as her dress but sprinkled with pink rosebuds.

She and Luis debated endlessly about her shoes and her arm and finally decided on a pair of beige canvas loafers for her feet and a cream satin shawl tied at her neck in a makeshift sling to replace the medical supply house one she wore around the house.

I was the only one in our little group who looked like he was going to a ball game.

Miss Jack seems to like the ballpark. As we walked in the front gates she
commented on the loveliness of the redbrick façade. She said she expected something cheap and modern. I told her the look of the park was inspired by the old railroad roundhouses that used to be all over Altoona back in its heyday and that even the minor-league team that the park was built for took its name from the railroad industry. Most people think the Altoona Curve is named after the curveball, but the name actually comes from the historic Horseshoe Curve carved into a nearby mountain.

Miss Jack was impressed with my knowledge. I explained to her that baseball can be a long, boring game and you have to find some way to entertain yourself, even if it’s only talking to old-timers and reading promotional brochures.

Once inside, she marveled at the cleanliness and the size of the park, but then she got distracted marveling at the size of the people. I tried to regain her attention by spouting more facts at her, like the park seats seventy-two hundred people, and pointing out the big wooden roller coaster sitting beyond the right-field fence. She liked that enough to stop wailing about how people should put down their Big Macs and go for a walk.

We’ve got great seats right behind our dugout. Bill’s already there. He sees us coming. It would be impossible not to. He stands up and waves.

I notice everyone’s been watching us and sort of acting strange, falling silent and automatically moving aside when we approach them. It could be solely because of Miss Jack’s outfit, but I also get the feeling people might know who she is and the myth that surrounds her. Luis informed me as we were leaving this morning that she hasn’t made a public appearance in forty years (except for the one night she showed up very unexpectedly at The Mine Shaft).

She’s barely been seated when Tyler’s dad leans in from the seat behind her where the Mann clan and their many friends and relations are taking up four solid rows. Almost every one of them is wearing a T-shirt that proclaims:
TYLER IS THE MANN
.

“Excuse me, Miss Jack, but I have to introduce myself. I’m Harvey Mann, Tyler’s father. I just want to thank you for inviting him to your home. That was a real thrill for him. A real thrill. My family’s worked for J&P Coal for many generations. We got a whole new generation now hoping all that talk about clean coal and getting a lot of the mines working again ain’t just talk.”

Miss Jack insists on getting back on her feet to properly greet him. I help her up.

“Mr. Mann,” she says, extending her hand. “I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“Well, thank you, I think,” he laughs.

He has the same crew cut and the same grin as his son. Hang thirty years, fifty pounds, and eight trips to the maternity ward on Tyler and you have his dad.

“This is my wife, Sally.”

Miss Jack takes her hand, too.

“You have a charming son,” she says.

“Charming?” Mr. Mann laughs again. “Well, that ain’t exactly a word I’d use to describe him.”

Mrs. Mann swats his beefy arm.

“He is too charming.”

Miss Jack scans the rows of matching T-shirts.

“You have quite a large family.”

“Eight kids.”

“Goodness,” she exclaims.

She gets seated again, and before I can even coax her into having a sip of water, Britney is standing in front along with a few of her sisters. She holds up a marker.

“Can we sign your cast?” she asks, excitedly.

“Well, I don’t know.” Miss Jack looks at me.

I shrug.

“Certainly,” she replies and returns Britney’s smile. “Why not?”

I settle into my seat and finally allow myself to relax a little and soak up some atmosphere. It’s a great day for a game. The sky is blue. The sun is shining. The air is filled with the smell of hot dogs, popcorn, freshly raked dirt, and new-mown grass.

There’s a big turnout. The two decks of seats are almost full, which is impressive for high school ball. This isn’t even the championship game yet, but it’s no ordinary playoff game, either. The state’s best pitcher and top hitter will be meeting for the first time ever: Shane Donner and Klint Hayes are going to finally face each other across that seemingly endless expanse of sixty feet that the ball’s going to sizzle over in four-tenths of one second.

The Blue Valley Cougars finish their warm-up, and the Flames take the field for theirs. Both teams briefly mix on the green diamond, their jerseys creating a perfect red, white, and blue American moment.

“There’s Klint,” Bill points and gushes proudly to Miss and Mrs. Jack.

Mrs. Jack stands up, claps her hands around her mouth, and yells, “Yay, Klint.”

They take their positions and start throwing balls around.

“What are they doing?” Miss Jack asks.

“They’re warming up,” I tell her.

“Is this where he’ll be during the game?”

“When they’re not at bat, yeah.”

She watches for a few minutes, then announces, “I need to speak with Coach Hill.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one can talk to him right now. The game’s about to start.”

“Isn’t that him? Right there?”

She points out Coach, who’s standing near the third-base line with his fists on his hips, vigorously working a piece of chew in his mouth.

I nod.

“He doesn’t look unapproachable. He doesn’t even look busy.”

“Miss Jack,” I start to plead.

“I’m going,” she tells me.

I bury my head in my hands and groan.

If anyone else had tried to speak to Coach Hill right now—even a pro scout—he would’ve ignored him, but when Miss Jack calls out to him and finally gets his attention, he comes walking over like he’s in a daze.

I know it’s not because he’s impressed with who she is. I think it’s because he can’t believe she’s real.

Despite his unbendable belief in the sanctity of pregame ritual and his own exalted position, I think he’s helplessly fascinated by her otherworldly weirdness, like he’s stumbled upon an alien life-form.

He comes within a few feet of the fence.

“I don’t want you to be too hard on Klint,” Miss Jack tells him. “He’s still fragile.”

The coach screws up his face beneath the shadow of his ball cap in a look of complete bafflement.

“Huh?”

“Okay, Miss Jack,” I say as I move her away. “Let’s go. The coach has a lot to do.”

I’m ushering her back up the stairs when Mrs. Jack suddenly bursts out of her seat and screams, “We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher! We want a catcher, not a belly scratcher!”

She raises her fists over her head and shakes them and her boobs in perfect harmony.

“Woo hoo! Go Flames!” she shouts and swivels her hips.

I’m pretty sure she’s not even drunk.

“Yeah!” Bill bellows in response, and they high-five each other.

It’s going to be an interesting game.

But not on the field. Not for a while.

The first few innings are a snooze. We can’t get a hit off Shane Donner. He blazes one fastball after another across the plate. He’s got a wicked curveball, too, with an unpredictable bend and a splitter that no one even wants to try.

He’s the picture of composure as he stands on the mound, chewing his gum, calmly nodding or shaking his head at his catcher’s signals before letting loose with a ball that travels through space like it’s been shot from a cannon.

Klint’s first at bat is a tense moment. The entire crowd becomes deathly still and silent. No one dares to breathe.

He’s out in four: a foul tip and three strikes.

Bill gives me a look sick with concern. I tell him not to worry.

Personally, I’m relieved. At least he didn’t run out of the park this time.

The Cougars don’t have much better luck with our pitcher, Joe.

They only get four hits in four innings and aren’t able to put a man on base. Two hits are pop-ups. One’s a line drive into right field that the hitter foolishly tries to stretch into a double. Klint tags him out after snagging a wild throw from Cody Brockway. A beautiful play on Klint’s part. The third is a hard one-hopper Klint fields and throws to Tyler for the easy out on first.

But the most dangerous difference between our pitchers isn’t the few hits that have been allowed; it’s that Shane retires one batter after another in usually
four or five pitches while it takes Joe a lot more. By the bottom of the fourth inning of the scoreless game, his exhaustion is beginning to show.

I spend half my time worried about Klint and the other half worried that Miss Jack is bored. She doesn’t complain. She dutifully drinks her water, fans herself like a señorita, and keeps her eyes trained on Klint when he’s in the field. When he’s in the dugout, her attention wanders, and she amuses herself by watching people in the stands.

I wanted her to see something exciting. I wanted her to see something as amazing as her tales of what happens at a bullfight.

Since not much is unfolding in front of us, I try to make up for it by explaining what she’s not seeing. I try to make her understand that baseball isn’t a game for dumb brutes who stand around half-asleep scratching themselves. It’s a game of alertness, quick reactions, and complex calculations.

I describe how a hitter faces a ball coming at him at close to a hundred miles per hour, how it arrives at the plate in less than half a second from the time it leaves the pitcher’s hand, how half of that half of a second is going to be taken up by the batter’s swing so he has to decide well before the ball gets to him what he’s going to do.

I also try explaining the intelligence and agility required to play second base, how Klint has to get into the right position every time, how he has to cover the base and make the right cutoff plays, how he has to respond instantly to driving, smash hits and slicing drives and uncooperative grounders, how he has to catch and throw the ball instantly with hands so soft that he doesn’t grasp the ball completely and how he has to have feet as light as any dancer’s.