OCR Text |
Show Car Baseball Butch and Fenn Stories 82 There is a car coming up from Seventh. "You want to quit?" "You?" Fenn runs, returns standing for the single. The car, the first with its light out in the new day, passes us for a strike. "A double and you've tied the record," Fenn says. "And I'm only six runs down. What a night!" "I'll quit if you'll quit," I offer. "It's Parley's record." Butch says, "Jesus, sixty-three runs." "Man on second," Fenn adds. "If he burns that whole damn garage tonight, he's going to be sorry." Butch says. "He won't have anything to burn tomorrow." "It is tomorrow." In the clear dawn, an empty bus rattles past, and we take the strike. We take on Quail's truck, strike two, and we flop out on our bags and take the third strike, Fenn's father's Buick, lying down. My mouth tastes funny from being awake so long, but it is undeniably morning. We can see the ashen edge of the trees and the birds are going out of control. Mr. Wilkes' fire has shrunk and he has gone inside. There is no more garage to burn. The last of the smoke trails above us in tatters. "What a night," Fenn repeats. "This night." |