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“Ow!” Joanna gave her own neck a mighty slap, but it was too late.
Sandra knew by the sound of Joanna’s cry that it had been a deer fly, which, for some reason, the locals insisted on calling copperheads. The first several times a Mainer had told her they’d been bitten by a copperhead, she’d wondered when snakes had learned to fly. But now she knew the lingo. Most of it, most of the time.
“Can I have more oil?” Joanna asked, meaning citronella oil, which kept the mosquitoes at bay.
“Sorry, honey. That won’t do anything for the copperheads.” A bat cracked, and Sandra tried to be gentle as she nudged her daughter aside so she could see one of their church elders sprinting toward first base. Most people wouldn’t have known that he was sprinting, but Sandra had seen him jog before. The spry young man playing shortstop for Grace Evangelical easily threw poor Elder Mashman out, who, appearing to take the whole thing personally, turned and trudged back toward their dugout. Sandra, the reluctant scorekeeper, was relieved that most of the team hung out behind the dugout; otherwise, it would be mighty crowded on her bench. She wrote the out in the scorebook and then tried to focus on the next at bat, though Joanna was now chattering away about some pony she’d seen on YouTube. Sandra nodded absentmindedly, watched the batter strike out, noted it in the book, and then looked around for her husband, the one who’d talked her into this grand service opportunity and was now off yukking it up with the people in the bleachers.
She couldn’t believe a church game could have so many spectators, but there they were. This was the Provost family’s first year of church softball. Nate had played years ago, but this was his first year with her in tow, and she wasn’t yet sure how she felt about it. Oh sure, it was good to get outside and hang out with people from church, getting some exercise. It was also a giant pain in the butt to do it with three kids. Eleven-year-old Peter, her oldest, wanted to play, but those in charge said he was too young, and now he was sulking in the minivan, staring down at his iPad. So much for his fresh air and exercise.
Finally, the umpire called the third out, and Sandra said a silent prayer of gratitude. It was true that she was supposed to be cheering for her team to not get any outs, but she just wanted to go home. There was a well-worn couch and some leftover tuna noodle casserole calling her name.
The New Hope Church coed softball team trotted out onto the field and took their positions. League rules allowed for ten players on the field, and that’s exactly how many players had shown up tonight. Grace Evangelical, known more often as simply Grace E, so that it sounded like people were cheering for a little girl named Gracie whenever they hollered their support, had a deeper bench that seemed to be full of ringers. Or maybe New Hope was just that terrible. This was their third game of the season, and they’d yet to get one in the win column, but Sandra certainly couldn’t be bothered to care. Her husband seemed to be enjoying himself, and they were doing something as a family—sort of. So she tried to enjoy it.
Grace E’s runs came in so fast that her pencil had trouble keeping up. Every time she looked down to record something, the runners would advance another base or two, and these people weren’t wearing numbers on their backs, so they were impossible to keep track of. She’d written little notes to herself along Grace E’s lineup. Next to “Bill,” she’d written “red hat.” Next to “Mike,” she’d written “loud wife.” Still, it was hard to keep up, and when the lead crept past ten runs, she stopped worrying about accuracy. No one was ever going to look at this scorebook, anyway.
The New Hope team was so bad that they made her catcher-husband Nate look like an all-star. He was helped out by a truly talented first baseman who went by the name of Boomer. She’d only recently learned why—he could hit the ball impressively far. But after that, the pickings were slim. Everyone insisted this was okay, of course, that they were just out there to have fun. Yet, they cheered their heads off when Nate finally threw the ball to first for the third out. So maybe they didn’t like losing as much as they let on. Or maybe they just were really excited to bat.
Several of them tossed their gloves into the dugout, one of them hitting Sammy squarely in the back of the stroller. He didn’t seem to mind. He just stared up at the sky, making her wonder if their church angel was in charge of overseeing softball games, or if that fell under someone else’s jurisdiction.
“Lineup!” Lewis snapped as if he’d already asked for the lineup ten times. Maybe he had. She had no idea. But she could understand why no one remembered who was up. Their last at bat had happened hours ago. She flipped the book over and read off the names of the next three batters. Lewis didn’t thank her. She wasn’t surprised.
Grace E put in a different pitcher, who was a smidge slower than the first. She wondered what it would be like to be on a team that had more than one pitcher. “Go Grac-eeee!” The high-pitched peal came from the bleachers along the first base line. Mike’s wife.
Pastor Cliff, looking official, sauntered into the third base coaching box. Sandra tried not to roll her eyes. She loved her pastor. She really did. He was a wonderful pastor. But he took this whole softball thing, and his role as leader of it, a little too seriously.
New Hope’s first batter stepped up to the plate and hit a grounder directly to the first baseman. One out. Sandra’s tuna noodle casserole fantasy grew more intense. Their second batter stepped up and hit the world’s teeniest pop fly to the pitcher. At least they’re hitting the ball. Sort of. The third batter, Steve York, shuffled into the batters’ box, looking so uncomfortable that Sandra wondered if he had itching powder in his pants. The first pitch was met with the world’s most awkward swing, and a ping sound sent the ball up the middle. Everyone was surprised, especially Steve, who took a few seconds to process the idea that he was now supposed to run. Mild-mannered Pastor Cliff was screaming at him to go, and finally, Steve went. He took off like a dump truck shifting through gears and by the time he reached first, he was traveling at a pretty good clip, with significant momentum. That’s what made it quite so tragic when his foot hit the bag at an odd angle and sent him spilling into the grass and rolling toward the fence—howling.