| OCR Text |
Show Car Baseball Butch and Fenn Stories 71 A car turns off Concord, too close, and we all try for it. I know it is just too close, the kind of car we wouldn't run on later in the game. In a straight race I'm faster than Butch, and I hit the swings first and turn for the bags, sliding in safe just as the lights pass. I turn to see Butch flat on his back in a full slide. "Tie goes to the runner," he points at me. "Runners on first and second." Fenn slides in half way back, ten feet off the base, as a joke and he walks up. "One down," he says. "I always start slow." Fenn is canny at Car Baseball, and when he sees a dull glow way down beyond Seventh South, he calls, "I'm going on that one." If it turns away and fails to pass us, he's out. He's running back and forth to the swings. Once, a single; twice, a double. As he touches his bag he says, "He's going for three." The lights persist, and when they pass Wasatch Avenue, Butch and I join Fenn who is going for a home run. He makes it standing up, as do we. But it's only a single for us. Standing with his hands on his knees, Fenn breathes: "One out, but one _in. I'm going for the record!" "Sixty-four," Butch says. But he doesn't have to. We all know the record. It's three years old and was set the first season, one night at Butch's. Sixty-four runs. It's Parley's record, set one night when he didn't want to go home |
