The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(27)

“I didn’t bring my glove,” I said.

“I have two,” Ernie said. And before I could come up with another excuse, he had run into his garage and emerged with two well-used mitts, a bat, a ball, and two black-and-orange Giants baseball caps, shoving one on my head. I looked around the small patch of lawn beside the concrete patio.

“We might break a window,” I said.

“We’ll go to the park,” he said. “It’s just down the street.”

With that he ran to the front yard, where we’d left our bikes.

“Should we tell your mom?”

“It’s okay. I know the way.”

Following Ernie’s lead, I hung the mitt by the strap on my handlebars. “How far is it?” I asked.

“It’s close,” he said and pedaled off down the street.

Village Park wasn’t far, but getting there involved several turns on winding streets. When we arrived, Ernie dropped his bike on the lawn just inside a gap in a chain-link fence. I carefully lowered the kickstand, not wanting to scratch the paint of my new bike. Except for a man chasing his dog and a couple lying on a blanket reading books, we had the park to ourselves. We set up in a corner facing the south fence, which towered nearly as high as the two-story house behind it. Ernie said he’d watched other boys set up so that when they hit the ball it would bounce off that fence.

“I’ll go first,” he said.

I was relieved. I had no idea what he meant to do. I stood at the base of the fence as Ernie walked perhaps forty feet and dropped his mitt. “Okay?” he yelled.

“Okay,” I shouted back, having no idea why.

Ernie tossed the ball into the air and, as it descended, swung. The ball shot straight up from his bat. I stood there, admiring its arc and watching it drop just a few feet from where I stood.

“You’re supposed to catch it,” Ernie yelled.

Thinking quickly, I shouted back, “I thought that was a practice one.”

“Throw it in.”

I picked up the ball and threw it as my dad had taught me. It bounced well short and to the right of Ernie. He chased it down and repeated the process. This time I put my glove up and raced in, only to have the ball soar over my head and roll to the fence. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment, but Ernie just smiled and hollered encouragement—“Good try.”

After hitting me another dozen, none of which I caught, Ernie took pity on me. “Let’s switch.” I was terrified of looking even more incompetent. I set down my mitt and picked up the bat and ball, mimicking each of Ernie’s moves, but when I swung, the bat generated only a rush of air. The ball fell at my feet.

I picked up the ball and tried again. This time I made contact, but the ball skittered across the lawn, stopping ten feet in front of me. “I’ll get it,” I shouted, running forward.

“Just hit it from there,” Ernie said. We were now no more than twenty feet apart. “Throw it higher.”

I did as instructed and realized that by tossing the ball higher I had more time to swing. This time everything clicked. I swung as hard as I could. The bat hit the ball with a loud crack, and I watched in shock and amazement as the ball soared high into the sky, much higher than any of the balls Ernie had hit. It also did not descend as it neared the fence, continuing on an upward plane. It cleared the top of the fence, followed by the unmistakable sound of a window shattering.

Ernie ran.

I stood paralyzed, still in awe of my majestic shot, not immediately realizing that everything had taken a sudden turn for the worse. When I finally turned, Ernie had already raced across the field to his bike, jumped onto the seat, and started pedaling. I couldn’t cross the patch of lawn nearly as fast as Ernie, especially carrying my mitt and the bat. By the time I reached my bike, Ernie was already halfway down the street. I couldn’t get the glove on the handlebar. Then I couldn’t get the kickstand up. Once on my bike, my feet slipped off the pedal, and I stumbled and nearly toppled over. I pushed the bike, did a sort of kick jump onto the pedal, and swung my other leg over the bar. When I felt balanced, I put the bat across the handlebars. I had no idea how to get back to Ernie’s house and realized I’d made a wrong turn only when I’d reached the El Camino, though not at the location my mother and I had crossed earlier. This corner had no stoplight.

I knew Balboa, my street, was somewhere across this great divide, and if I could make it across, I could find my way home. I got off the seat and waited for a break in traffic. I started across, realized I had to also judge the cars in the two lanes on the opposite side, and pulled back to the corner. A moment later I saw a gap in the traffic and again pushed away from the curb. My head swiveled left to right. Halfway across, a car neared. I picked up my pace, but the mitt slid from the handlebars and hit the pavement. To retrieve it, I’d have to put the kickstand down or lay the bike down. Meanwhile the car closed distance. I couldn’t leave Ernie’s mitt to get run over, but I also couldn’t sacrifice my bike. A thought came to me. I kicked the glove as I continued to push the bike. With the car nearly upon me, I kicked the mitt again. A third kick carried it all the way to the gutter strewn with eucalyptus leaves and shredded bark. Hearing the blare of the car horn, I shoved the bike forward and bounced the tires over the curb onto the sidewalk.

I’d made it. I’d crossed the El Camino on my own. After a moment to consider my achievement and to catch my breath, I repositioned Ernie’s glove on the handlebars and rode up the street. I recognized the familiar green backstop and baseball fields of Ray Park and realized, thankfully, I was just two blocks from my house. Surely whatever rules I had broken would be tempered by the fact that I had been responsible enough to make it home. Everything would be fine, I thought, breathing easier. Then I heard that voice.