Chapter 3: Bean Ball

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/454793262345146856/

“All right ladies, the first three Bridgewater batters need to get hit,” Coach Q whispers to the women lined up on the wooden bench of the makeshift dugout in a corner of Dusk Field. “That’ll send a message to last year’s Old Dominion Athletic Conference champs.”

“Just nail em?” squeaks our pitcher Shawna Drachman, her blue eyes darting over to Jo before staring off to the motel dorms across from the field.

“What worked for my coach‘ll work for us,” he counters while plugging a wad into his cheek.

__________

After the tough loss to Gibson-Henry Woman’s College on a failed suicide squeeze, Coach Q had lined up the girls along the brick wall of the Old Gym and fired overhand fastballs at their chests for bunt practice.

“C’mon Ronki, stay in there and let the ball hit the bat, you’ve got all the chest protection you need,” he mocked when she leaned back and popped one up for what would have been a sure out. “Now go to the back of the line.”

“Atta girl, Valenti!” he grinned when our leftfielder dropped one down. “Shower time for you.”

“No go, chickenshit,” he chided when Jo laid down a perfect bunt. “Do it without bailing next time.”

I saw her dark eyes flash and her arms tense to throw the bat but she managed to pull back before stomping over to the back of the line. Only one other player got her bunt down without backing away before it was MG’s turn.

“Now we’ll see if the French are really yellow,” he laughed, heaving one right at her.

She turned to face the ball, sliding her right hand up the bat and laying it down across her chest. The ball hit the side of her hand with a crack and bounced down for a perfect bunt.

“That’s the way ya’ do it, there’s nothin’ to it,” he sang while doing a little dance.

A harsh “jeaah, jeaah” of a blue jay from behind the white blossoms of a nearby dogwood accompanied MG as she walked off, stooped and cradling her swelling hand.

__________

“Casey Stengel telled them Met pitchers to hit the first three?” asks Jo, breaking the silence on the bench before the game.

“Nah, just an occasional bean ball to keep ‘em honest, but just think what three in a row’ll do to their heads,” Q grins.

Jo looks the bench up and down while kicking up the dirt at her feet.

“I declare, mah cousin Huldie Gibson’s uncle Bob was the awneriest pitcher’n baseball and he never’s tryin to hit a batter.”

     She stands up slowly and then jogs out to centerfield, with the rest of the team following to their positions.

“Hey, where’d she get that number?” Q sputters, doing a double take before realizing Jo had used black tape to turn seventy-seven into twenty-two.

“Here comes the first pitch,” I point out, saved from an explanation by the start of the game.

Shawna places her left foot on the corner of the pitching rubber and eyes the catcher’s mitt on the inside corner slightly behind the lefty lead-off batter. She steps back with her right leg and explodes toward the plate, launching her blond locks along with her hips and left arm toward the plate. The hitter squares to bunt and gets nailed in the gut by the fastball. A gasp erupts from the Bridgewater College bench as she doubles over with a grimace before standing up and trotting to first.

“C’mon Shawna, put it where you want it!” Q calls, pretending to encourage her to throw strikes.

The number two hitter steps into the rear of the right-handed batter’s box as far away from the mound as she can get. Shawna shifts her grip, rears her lean body back, and delivers a spinning curveball that plunks the batter on the thigh as she steps into the pitch. She throws down her bat and walks down to first base glaring out at the mound. Their coach runs in from the third base coach’s box to complain to the home plate umpire. Coach Q trudges out to the pitcher’s mound with hands jammed into his jacket pockets, hopping over the foul line and spewing a stream of brown-flecked tobacco juice before placing both hands on Shawna’s shoulders.

“Everything all right?” he calls out before leaning in and whispering “two down, one to go.”

She twists away from his grasp and steps up onto the mound as he skips back over the line and sits on the bench.

There are runners on first and second base with no outs as their big third batter steps into the box, digs in with her cleats, pounds the plate with an aluminum bat, and drops into a slight crouch, staring out at Shawna’s left hand.

“Ca-ha-ha” laughs a big black bird perched on the top rail of the football bleachers poking out into right centerfield.

“Shawna, Shawna are you ready?” sings Jo from out in centerfield.

“Shawna, Shawna are you ready?” the rest of the fielders respond.

“Ready,” she sighs.

“Boogie-woogie up and boogie down,” Jo continues.

“Boogie-woogie up and boogie down,” the girls all repeat.

“What the fuck?” Q mumbles from the bench.

A small smile spreads up Shawna’s face as she winds up and delivers the next pitch over the backstop for ball one.

“All right pitch, settle down,” calls the umpire as he steps out and tosses her a new ball.

That little smile remains at the edges of her pursed lips as Shawna’s second pitch bounces in the dirt and skips past our catcher, Cat Kent. The runners move to second and third base on the passed ball, and the pitch count advances to a hitter’s count, two balls and no strikes for their best hitter. Shawna steps lightly toward home and lobs a chest high grapefruit right over the outside corner of the plate. Out in centerfield Jo sees the batter cock her arms and starts moving left as the bat uncoils to send a high line drive screaming toward right centerfield. Number twenty-two takes off toward the ball’s trajectory but has to pull up at the edge of the bleachers. The base runners see the ball still rising and take off for home. Then that big black bird flaps up from the rail and is plunked. Both ball and bird drop like ripe apples in an autumn wind, and Jo basket catches the bird in her oversized Rawlings outfielders glove as she stabs the ball with her bare hand. The base umpire raises his right arm for the out signal as Jo sets down the crow under the first row of seats, leaps around, and fires a rope to Ronki standing on second base, just beating the runner scampering back for the second out.

Coach Q leans forward, spits into the dirt, and plops back onto the bench.

Box Score: