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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 119 "Sure, sure," Fenn says. He can see so much that he's barely listening. He's on his bike now, cruising down Concord, headed for practice, his head scanning rooftops, trees, backyards, the entire universe. "Good luck!" Butch yells. "Good luck, you All Star." 7 Butch realigns the drill atop the bat and returns to drilling. The wooden heart center of the Louisville Slugger peels out around the auger in thin blond curls. "Fenn's an All Star," I say. Some skinny kid who couldn't see across the infield, a kid who hasn't played a third of an inning all season long as a twelve year old, has been elected to the All Star team by the votes of his fellow players. "Yep," Butch says, concentrating on the core of the bat. "He deserves it." In another tone he adds: "He wanted it." The night before the last league game, Butch stenciled "VOTE FENN - ALL STARS" throughout both green dugouts in white paint. It was particularly effective because the only writing the little leaguers had been used to seeing in the dugouts was a hideous, carved "Fuck You!" in the home dugout and a green magic marker slogan "Up your gigi with a ten foot pole!" in the visitors'. Confronted with Fenn's name in bold white paint, even printed on the benches, and confused by the rumor that |