| OCR Text |
Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 106 remains new primarily because, as yet, it is practically unused. Fenn swings it in batting practice, when Gurber is feeling generous or forgetful and lets Fenn have three pitches, but he rarely taps more than a foul ball. Walking home after practice, he rubs the mark off the end of the bat. He loves that bat. So it is later, in Butch's yard, when Butch asks Fenn again why he insists on continuing in Little League that Fenn simply swings the bat as an answer. It's a nice swing, initiated high-elbow fashion. The bat floats above his right shoulder and then falls imperceptibly with the little smooth hitch of his left foot as he side steps and his weight slides right to left and the wrists race around, winging the bat in a great singing arc which is as true as a sightline. The Louisville Slugger cuts through the tangible air with a crisp swish, and for the half second the sweet sound lasts, Fenn looks almost dangerous. What he is, however, is intent. He stands twisted up by the swing, wound up like so many rags, still looking into blue space above an imaginary center field fence. His eyes may be lost to this world, but they clearly see another. "We've got to do something about this boy," Butch says. Fenn finally drops the pose, unwinds and stands frankly before us. He's going to say something. "All Star," is what he says. |
