18

KIRSTEN SAID THAT FIRST NIGHT that she was staying at Abby Robertson’s house—but it would be more accurate to say she was sleeping there.

Because most of her waking moments were spent at our place.

After a few days, a schedule developed:

Kirsten arrived just after breakfast. (The first day she had to knock; after that, we left the door unlocked for her.) She and Dad spent an hour or so in the basement as soon as she arrived, then another hour before dinner.

The rest of the time she hung out with me. Mom had to work until Christmas Eve, and Dad was home but stayed out of our way. When Kirsten and I were upstairs, he would be in the living room; when we were in the living room, he would be in the basement.

The two of us played bedroom basketball until the window fogged up.

We played one-on-one on the driveway as long as our cold hands could stand it.

We watched old basketball movies that no one else our age had probably even heard of (“The Pete Maravich one, The Pistol, was my favorite growing up,” Kirsten told me) and re-read Mike Lupica sports books (“Oh my gosh. I loved these as a kid,” she said).

We looked up The Guinness Book of World Records. (“Longest fingernails,” she quizzed me. “Easy,” I said. “Lee Redmond. Altogether, over twenty-eight feet of nails.” Kirsten looked at the picture and shook her head. “That chick is gross,” she said.)

We did all the things, in other words, that I usually did with Eric over winter break. I’d like to be able to say I missed Eric during those couple weeks—but I didn’t. Not really. Having him out of sight made it easier to forget about his plans to try out for the baseball team. The first few days he was gone, he texted me with updates: uncle says i have good fielding range and guess who just made an over-the-shoulder catch? I didn’t reply to these texts, though, because I didn’t know what to say. If I encouraged him, he’d just get his hopes up even more. If I told him the truth—everyone who tries out will be able to make an over-the-shoulder catch, Eric—I’d just come across as a jerk.

Luckily, paying attention to Kirsten made it easy to ignore Eric.  

On the night before Christmas Eve, we played mini-baseball in my living room. I went over the rules: first base was an arm of the couch; third base was an arm of the recliner. I used masking tape to make second base and home plate, which was in the corner of the room, just enough in front of the Christmas tree to allow for full extension when swinging. Anything on or over the kitchen table was a home run, I explained. Anything under the table was a ground-rule double.

“Let me guess, these are the official rules, Commissioner Duncan?”

“Oh,” I told her, “and another thing: You have to play on your knees.”

(This last rule was invented by my dad years ago during the World Series. At the time Eric and I thought it was just to add another quirky element to the game. But Dad has since confessed that he came up with the rule so he could see the TV. “Win-win,” he said. “You guys could keep playing, and I could keep watching the World Series.”) 

“Is that a great idea?” she said, pointing to my knee. She was genuinely concerned.

“That’s why I’m wearing this,” I told her. I slapped my heavy-duty brace.

She swung the little wooden bat I got as a kid for being one of the first thousand fans at a Minnesota Twins game. “Just one question,” she said. “Don’t we need a ball?”

“Oh… I suppose that would help, huh?”

This was usually Eric’s department. He always brought a little round foam ball from his house. I think it was originally ammo for a Nerf gun.

I looked around the room as if a little round foam ball might show up on a tabletop if I was patient enough.

“I have an idea,” Kirsten said. She was already on her knees, and she reached behind her and took off one of her anklet socks. “Give me that tape.”

I handed it to her and she wrapped the masking tape around and around her bunched up sock. Once all the cotton was covered, she tossed the tape-sock ball to me. “How’s that?”

I tossed it up and down a few times. “It’s practically the same size as a real baseball,” I said.

“So I guess we’re playing mini softball instead,” she said and walked on her knees to the plate. “I’ll hit first.”

Four innings later, we heard the garage door open.

Mom was home.

That meant it was almost time for dinner—and for Kirsten to go back to Abby’s.

“Last pitch,” Kirsten said. “Winner takes all.”

“How does that work?”

The score was tied—5-5—with nobody on.

“Simple,” she said. “If I hit a home run, I win. If I don’t, you win.”

I started swinging my arms back and forth like the old-time pitchers did as they wound up to throw. “I like my odds,” I said.  

“Just pitch the ball, Meat,” she said.

After several more arm swings, I did. Right over the plate. Kirsten swung and hit a line drive that ricocheted off my brace and wedged under the far side of the couch. By the time I moved for the ball, Kirsten had touched the arm of the couch and was on her way to second. I scramble-crawled along the couch, tugged the sock-ball out and turned for home.

Kirsten touched the arm of the recliner and kept going.

More scramble crawling.

The two of us lurched for home plate at the same time. Me to block it, her to touch it.

We collided and the next thing I knew we were lying in a heap—her on top, me on the bottom.

“Did I win?” she said.

“Did you even touch the plate?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. Did you touch me with the ball?”

“Not sure.”

“Hmmmm,” she said. I had the ball in my right hand, which lay at my side. She pinned my wrist down with her knee, lowered herself a little more so her upper body was parallel to mine but not quite touching it, and slapped home plate. “I guess I did win after all,” she said.

Her face was just above mine, and I thought how easy it would be to kiss her—but then, over her shoulder and over the couch, I saw Mom emerge from the hallway with a bag of groceries. If she saw us, she didn’t let on, but I must have made a startled face or something because Kirsten was off me and standing up in less than a second.

“Hey, Mrs. Duncan,” she said. “I was just beating your son at baseball. Hopefully, he’s not too depressed to eat tonight.”

Mom looked at her, and then looked over the couch at me on the ground. “Something tells me he’ll recover,” she said.

Then she asked her usual question about whether Kirsten was staying for dinner. Kirsten gave her usual thanks but no thanks and headed for the hallway. The only difference was that this time, she was missing a sock. I was still lying on the living room carpet, but I could hear every other step make a suctioning-slapping sound on the linoleum.

I got up and made it to the entryway in time to see her jamming her barefoot into a boot.

“Want your sock back?” I said.

“What sock?” she said. “All I see in your hand is a mini softball.”

She had everything on including her mittens, which she pounded into place with the insides of her thumbs.

“Sorry you didn’t get a chance to work with Dad tonight,” I said.

“I’m not,” she said. She clicked the door handle and pulled. “I mean, if we lose the state tournament I’m going to blame you, but...” She shrugged her shoulders. “I can live with that if you can.”

She smiled—little tooth and all—and stepped out the door.