Wrapped in Rain(70)

Mutt picked up on it the moment he first saw the house. I almost felt embarrassed. Circling the house, I stepped over the puddles that held yesteryear's scum and dirt. Within minutes, they had soaked through the earth and were gone. Above me, the house shone brilliantly.

I waved, and Mutt nodded in my direction and kept spraying while maintaining a strong grip on the wand. I walked into the barn, dropped a Maxwell House can's worth of feed in Glue's trough, and started rubbing his mane. I spread some hay, mucked out the manure, opened the gate, and let him follow his nose around the pasture. Thinking about a shower, I walked toward the house, and Jase hopped off Miss Ella's porch holding a baseball in his hand. It didn't take me a second to recognize it. My home-run ball from the College World Series.

I eyed the ball, hoping he wouldn't throw it and scuff the cover. "Hey, partner."

"Unca Tuck, can you teach me to hit?"



Twenty-five years ago, in roughly this same place on planet Earth, give or take about three feet, I had asked my dad the same question. He walked out of the barn dressed in his best riding boots and pants, having just wrestled one of his thoroughbreds around the pasture, and walked right past me. He never responded. He didn't even acknowledge that I had asked the question. He left me standing there holding a ball, the bat Miss Ella had bought me, and a raggedy old glove that needed new stitching. He walked inside-his face twisted and angry, his mind busy with the next deal or secretary-poured himself about four inches of scotch, and shut the library door. Discussion over.

I looked at Jase, standing there holding that ball, innocent as a puppy, and I wondered how in the world my dad could pass me by. What was wrong with how I had asked the question? What was any different? What did I do wrong? Why didn't he answer me?

I stepped across a mud puddle rimmed by soapsuds, stood next to Jase, took the ball gently from his hand, and turned it over in mine. The laces were tight, and dried clay clung to one stitch where the laces narrowed. I looked at the ball and remembered the pitch. A slider, coming in low and moving out to in. Halfway to the plate, I slowed the pitch, put Rex's face in between the laces, took a step, and swung-splattering his brains across the pitcher's mound. By the time I rounded first, the ball was gone, deep over left center, the game was over, the stands erupted in a frenzy, and I had just killed Rex Mason for the umpteenthousandth time. I crossed home plate, and so help me, if that pitcher had asked, "Hey, buddy, the ball slipped. Can we do that over?" I'd have grabbed the bat, stepped into the box, and nodded.

I opened Jase's hand, spread his first two fingers across the ball, lined them up on the laces, and then gently cocked his arm back. "Like that," I said. "See how that feels?"Jase nodded. I pointed him toward the barn and the Swiss cheese wall. "Okay, point, step, and throw." Jase pointed toward the back wall with his left hand, took a big step, and threw a five-year-old's throw into the barn. The ball spun sideways, arced high, bounced off a stall wall, and came to rest in the hay trampled across the middle of the barn. Jase watched the ball roll until it stopped and looked up at me.



There was only one answer. "Yeah, buddy, I'll teach you to hit."

"Right now?"

"This very minute."

We walked into the barn, and I looked underneath the workbench that lined the wall on the left side. I peeled away the cobwebs, cautious for rats' nests, and grabbed the bucket-the one Miss Ella used to sit on. It was full of old baseballs; I had forgotten how many were in there. Maybe thirty. Next to the bucket, spilled across the bottom of the lowest shelf, were a dozen or so bats-measuring sticks of my growth. I grabbed the smallest, the first bat Miss Ella had given me. The one I carried with me across the floor and in front of Rex's room, the one I used to tap her window, the one I hit ten thousand pebbles with, and the one that rested on my shoulder the day Rex Mason didn't answer me.

I slid it out and wiped the barrel gently with my palm. It was splintery, gouged with deep holes where I'd hit rocks that were too big, and the handle was dark with use. It was a 25-15-twenty-five inches long and fifteen ounces in weight. Perfect.

Lastly, I pulled the tee from underneath the workbench. A hard plastic tube, fitted with a short piece of radiator hose at the top. I sunk the tube into the ground at the barn door and sat off to one side, close enough to reach out and set balls atop the tee. "Okay, lesson miniher one."Jase stood trained on me. Goofiness mixed with perfect concentration. His hat was tilted to one side, and sleep filled his eyes. "We've got to line up your knuckles. A good grip is the beginning." Jase held out his bat, and I lined up the flats of his knuckles. "Secondly, stance." Jase kept both hands on the bat and looked at his feet. "You can't hit it if your feet are all catty-wompass. You've got to address the tee. Almost like a cowboy in a shootout. Stand square."



I lifted him up and set him down in the imaginary batter's box and drew a line around him. "Thirdly, eyes." I touched the tip of his nose gently with my finger. His eyes watched my finger, crossed, then looked at me. The entire time, he just kept nodding and never said a word. "You can't hit it if you're not looking at it. You can watch where it goes later; right now, let's watch you hit it." I stood hack; Jase cocked the bat and angled it just slightly behind his neck.

"Lastly, step and swing. It's a rhythm thing. First you step, then you swing." I lifted his elbow, straightened his feet, and tucked his head down into his shoulder. "Okay, take a practice swing. Remember"-I enunciated slowly, letting my voice fall into a monotonous rhythm-"step and swing."Jase gritted his teeth and took a big step and a huge swing. The barrel of the bat hit the rubber and made it glorious smacking noise. His eyes grew wide and asked the questions mine had asked a thousand times. "Did I do good? Can we do it again?"