Calico Joe

“Now, this is when you nail the son of a bitch. He’s leaning in a little, thinking I’m picking at the outside corner, so he’s not thinking about getting drilled. I’m not gonna hit you in the head, so don’t step out, okay? Dig in, Paul, like a real player.”

I was terrified and couldn’t move. He took his windup and threw the ball at me, not high and not as hard as he could, but when the ball hit my thigh, it hurt like hell and I think I screamed. He was yelling, “See. You’re gonna survive. That’s how you do it. Two fastballs away, then you hit the bastard, preferably in the head.” He scurried around and picked up the three baseballs while I rubbed my thigh and tried not to cry. “Give me the bat and get your glove,” he said.

I was now the pitcher, and he was at the plate. “Two fastballs outside. Let’s go.”

I delivered the first one in the grass and three feet off the plate. “You gotta hit the catcher’s mitt, Paul, come on, damn it,” he snarled as he waved the bat like a real hitter. His career batting average was .159.

I threw the second pitch outside and higher.

“Now,” he said, taking a step toward me. “Drill me right here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Stick it in my ear, Paul.” He was back at the plate in his stance. “Stick it in my ear. You can’t throw hard enough to hurt me.”

I was forty feet away, gripping the baseball, wanting desperately to throw a pitch that would knock out his teeth, spill blood, fracture his skull, and lay him out flat on the grass. I kicked high, delivered, and the ball went straight down the middle of the plate, a perfect strike. As it bounced off the backstop, he picked it up, threw it back to me, and said, “Come on, you little chicken-shit. Hit me with the damned baseball.”

I threw another fastball, one that was higher but still over the plate. This made him even angrier, and after retrieving the ball, he fired it back. It was getting dark. He threw the ball much too hard. It glanced off the webbing of my glove and hit me in the chest. I shrieked and started crying, and before I realized it, he was in my face, yelling, “If you don’t take this ball and hit me in the head, I’m gonna beat your ass, you understand?”

As he stomped to the plate, I glanced at the house. Upstairs, Jill was peeking out her bedroom window.