| OCR Text |
Show Throwing the Bread Butch and Fenn Stories 91 By the time I meet my pals again that evening in the park, I am feeling a little like my old self, and think I might try to trick Fenn out of a snowcone or two. Fenn's little brother is pitching a no-hitter against the Hornets, and right in the middle of the baseball fury, looking like a lamb gone through a lawn mower, is all that bread. In the action, some has been tracked half way to third, and some has been scattered into shallow center. Mrs. Fenn sits in row one, her arms folded in her way, watching her son pitch, when we pass her as we climb up, I say: "Good evening, Mrs. Fenn." She does not say, "Hello Lawrence." My heart feels like a nuclear holocaust. I sit the whole game trying to watch without looking at the torn bread which beams at me-like^radioactive particles. Then there is a scream as the game ends and all of little Fenn's teammates throw their gloves into the air, and everyone drifts away from the park, and the concession stand is boarded up, and it starts to get dark, and I feel like the last person left in the world. Fenn has walked home with his mother. Butch" left right away, looking back as if the bread might chase him. I stay as long as I can, hoping things will somehow become normal again, but the bread seems magnified in the dark, so I slip down the bleachers and run home. I lie in bed an hour, I guess. It is hard to tell with all the turning. There is to be no sleeping. I keep seeing |
