Wrapped in Rain(71)

I patted him on the shoulder and smiled. "Good, a good first effort; we can work with that. Now, this time, I want you to keep your eye on that imaginary ball. One more practice swing." Jase cocked, gritted his teeth, stepped, swung, and kept his eye glued to the tip of the radiator hose. Textbook-for a five-year-old.



I set a ball on the tee; Jase licked his lips and waited on my instruction. He turned his red baseball cap around backwards-rally cap style-kicked his right foot in the dirt, digging it in, and cocked his bat. "Okay, remember, step and swing." Jase nodded, raised his right elbow, and waited, hanging on my instruction, a compact bundle of cocked anticipation. "Play ball."

Jase swung, connected with the ball, and foul-tipped it over my head. "Not bad, not bad, a little low. Your knuckles weren't lined up and your step was too short, bringing you in underneath it. Open your hips, point your belly button at that wall, and step like you mean it. Okay, try it again." Jase licked again, gritted harder, and stepped. The bat connected with the ball, and it shot down what would have been the third base line. It banged into the side wall of the barn and then rolled down to the Swiss cheese wall.

Jase's eyes lit up and he pointed at the ball. "Unca Tuck, did you see that?"

"I did." I sat on the bucket and pointed to the infield. "I think you'd better take a trip around the bases, buddy. That one was out of here." Jase dropped the bat, trotted around the imaginary bases in the barn, touching the right side stalls, the wall at the back, and then the workbench, finally stomping on the dirt next to the tee and giving me a high five.

"Can we do it again?" I looked at him as if I hadn't heard him right. He had said it. The actual words came out of his mouth. They were beautiful. His face was a mixture of pure joy, pure delight, and pure kid. Everything that was good in this life, and everything I ever wanted to be, was staring me in the face.



"Buddy," I said, the tears filling the corners of my eyes, "we can do this as long as you feel like picking up these balls. 'Cause that's the deal: you hit 'em, you pick 'em." I held out my hand, palm up, and he gave me a big slap. "You ready?"

Jase cocked the bat over his shoulder, took a big breath through his nose, and nodded.

Thirty-three balls later he was making good contact and sending balls straight down the center of the barn. He was a good way yet from hitting the back wall in the air, but he was definitely getting there on the roll.

He was tireless, so we picked them up and collected them in the bucket, and by the time I turned around, he was standing at the tee with the bat cocked over his shoulder. I sat down, put a ball on the tee, and said, "Play ball."

Jase swung, foul-tipped it over my head, and watched it roll into Glue's stall. Mutt walked up behind Jase, wearing squishing rubber boots and eyeglasses and with his ears filled with plugs. He looked like he wanted to say something but just stood there. I looked up, Mutt pointed to Jase, and I nodded. Mutt reached down and gently lined up Jase's knuckles, lifted his right elbow about two inches, and tucked his head gently but snugly into his left shoulder. Without a word, he walked back over to the house and cranked up the pressure washer. I set another ball up and Jase smacked it down the center of the barn.

Sixty balls later, I said, "How 'bout we pick this up tomorrow?"

He dropped the bat, which he could barely hold by then anyway, gave my leg a giant squeeze, and ran to the porch. "Mom, did you see that?" He pointed to the barn. "Did you see that?"

Katie sat on the porch, wrapped up in one of Miss Ella's shawls, rocking. My back had been turned, so I didn't really know how long she'd been there.



"I did," she said. "I did." Jase turned his hat around, hopped on his bike, and circled the driveway riding on the last hour's high.

"How long've you been there?" I asked.

"Long enough."

She folded her hands behind her back and walked up to me, coming to a stop just a few inches from my chestonce again invading my personal space. "Thank you, Tucker Rain."

If beauty had a face in the morning, it was staring me in the face.

"What for?" I said, trying to set out again toward the house.

She stepped in front of me and squeezed me toward the split rail fence. "For teaching my son to bat."

"Oh, sure." I ducked.

"And ..." She nodded toward the bathroom. "For yesterday."

"I didn't do anything," I said, shaking my head and avoiding eye contact.

She reached up, tugged the chest of my shirt, and pulled her stomach to mine. "That's what I'm thanking you for."

"Oh."

We stood for a moment, her pressing me against the fence while Glue stood solo against the horizon on the far side of the pasture. A few cowbirds milled and fluttered around him. "You loved baseball, didn't you?" she asked.

I nodded. "I do." She let go and straightened my shirt, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the fence.

"What do you love about it?"



To answer that question meant I had to swim beneath the surface, and I wasn't sure I wanted to do that. I had already drowned once. I kicked the dirt beneath my feet, spreading the pebbles with clay and manure, and said, "Most folks see baseball as a sport where big guys, wearing tight pants and chewing a mouthful of gum, spit constantly, adjust themselves, scream, `Hey, batter,' run in circles, and make odd hand signals. And yes, that is part of baseball, but it's not the heart. The heart of baseball is found in backyards and sandlots, and the faces of little boys like that."