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Show Car Baseball Butch and Fenn Stories 36 "Bowler." "Bowler. That tall kid? Did you like him?" "I liked his electric football game." "What's he batting now?" I ask and Fenn drops to a knee to check his notebooks. We're killing time, hoping Butch can get the cup back. "That's his first hit in Cup. He's . . .one-ten." "Why'd he move?" "His father hated the neighborhood. Too many weeds. Junk like that. Too many kids." Fenn sits down in the weeds and starts drumming the broomstick bat against homeplate. Finally, we hear a distant call and the blue cup arcs up over the house and falls in the litter of Butch's wrecked backyard. Tiny opens an eye, but isn't up for trouble and goes back into his dog coma. Butch comes around the house and takes his place in centerfield under the bathroom window. "Let's go." I stretch and check second, lean and deliver: change up. Fenn swings way too hard and pops up to shallow right. Butch is there for the out. As we rotate and I go to the plate, I see Karen march back into the yard. She has not been crying although Butch has obviously pounded her, as he does every time she takes the cup and runs. Her set mouth and stubborn face are as tough as anything in this neighborhood. |