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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 131 Dickey holds his own. He's keeping his fast ball low and we haven't had anything but limping grounders and one loopy line drive to deep short. He's only walked one guy. After Fenn was hit, Dickey came out to second and asked me if he should take down a couple of their guys. "Don't do it," I told him, "No matter how hard you hit them, they still get first base." So it all keeps until the sixth and final inning. After the first hitter strikes out for the second time, Fenn comes to the plate. He's magnificent. With all of his stances and his adjusting those goggles and his taking those two sweet practice swings, each with a metallic click that only Butch and I can hear, Fenn looks like a hired assassin. I can see Butch clipped against the backstop, his fingers through the fence. Mrs. Fenn sits in her dress in the second bleacher row, but now her hands are clutching the bench. "Go ahead, Fenn!" I yell. "Hit this guy!" The first pitch is a sidearm brushback which would have sent" most kids running for the dugout in tears. Fenn lifts his chin to let the ball pass. During the windup for the next pitch, Fenn steps out of the box. The Holladay pitcher ahorts the pitch awkwardly, stepping on his own left foot, and then tries to save face by casually throwing the ball to the first baseman who isn't looking. The ball goes into right field. There is some laughter. Some of it is from me, I admit. Fenn |