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Show Car Baseball Butch and Fenn Stories 77 of the old Plymouth loom in the streetlight. Parley stands straight up and cocks his head. "Well, who's got the record?" he asks, though it's not really a question, and he leaps into a sprint right across the path of the car and gone into the vacant lot. We all fall to our bags and hide, taking the strike. When it is quiet and dark again, Fenn says, "If Mr. Wilkes doesn't go home, we're going to have to run all night." "So will Parley." I can feel Parley and that Plymouth orbiting the neighborhood, pulling sounds and shapes out of the night sky, and for the three of us Butch, Fenn, and me, there is little time to rest. On the next sure single off Indiana Avenue, Fenn turns right into me as we're at the swings, and we both go down in a pile on the grass as the car whips past; out number two for both of us. We're barely able to limp back to our sleeping bags before the next car passes: strike one. Fenn's lip is bleeding where it hit my head. While we're moaning, Butch makes a double home-run (legal) on a car that inches along the vacant lot, looking for something, we guess. A car baseball dream car; so slow and so straight. Fenn takes his third out on a long shot which stops a hundred yards up the road and pulls over to park. When the lights go out, Fenn collapses on his bag and moans. He was up |
