OCR Text |
Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 103 answer. He hasn't been in one game all season long, but he has not missed a practice. His coach, Mr. Gurber, has a son, Keith, who plays right field. Keith isn't half the player Fenn is. He has a red mitt. All summer, Butch and I have watched Keith carefully, and he is an ineffective fielder. He stands deep, near the foul line, in right field, facing-actually-the old tennis courts, offering the fans his narrow, failing profile. To further intimidate the batters, he poses, toes together, heels apart, with both of his hands-even the red-gloved hand-grasping the long limp end of his belt which spills generously from his baseball trouser loops down about a foot in front of him. He looks a lot, even way out there lost in the very corner of the ball field, like a young kid about to be shot. And, at the plate it's the same for Keith. The only time he ever swings the bat is to get enough momentum up, as he is stepping into the batter's box, to swing the thing up on his shoulder. Where it stays. With the bat heavily into his frail shoulder, Keith takes his stance: toes together, heels apart, legs straight. And in a touch no other player on any of the four teams has mastered, Keith faces the umpire. He doesn't want to see what is about to happen. When the best thing happens, and Keith is awarded a walk, Mr. Gurber leans out and bellows from the dugout: "Keith! Way to go! Good eye, Keith! Way to watch 'em!" |