jg.paintedhouse-第23部分

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　　　The　bat　looked　like　a　toothpick　as　Hank　hacked　and　chopped　with　his　practice　swings；　as　if　he　might　hit　the　ball　across　the　river。　Cowboy's　first　pitch　was　a　fastball　away；　and　Hank　didn't　swing。　It　popped　into　Rico's　glove；　and　the　Mexicans　erupted　in　another　burst　of　Spanish　jeering。
　　　〃Throw　the　ball　over　the　plate！〃　Hank　yelled　as　he　looked　at　us　for　approval。　I　was　hoping　Cowboy　would　drill　a　fastball　into　his　ear。
　　　The　second　pitch　was　much　harder。　Hank　swung　and　missed。　Cowboy　caught　the　ball　from　Rico；　and　glanced　over　at　third；　where　Tally　was　waiting　and　watching。
　　　Then　Cowboy　threw　a　curve；　a　pitch　that　went　straight　for　Hank's　head；　but　as　he　ducked　and　dropped　the　bat；　the　baseball　broke　and　fell　magically　through　the　strike　zone。　The　Mexicans　roared　with　laughter。　〃Strike！〃　Miguel　yelled　from　second　base。
　　　〃Ain't　no　strike！〃　Hank　yelled；　his　face　red。
　　　〃No　umpires；〃　my　father　said。　〃It's　not　a　strike　unless　he　swings　at　it。〃
　　　Fine　with　Cowboy。　He　had　another　curve　in　his　arsenal。　It　at　first　appeared　quite　harmless；　a　slow　fat　pitch　headed　toward　the　center　of　the　plate。　Hank　reached　back　for　a　massive　swing。　The　ball；　however；　broke　down　and　away　and　bounced　before　Rico　blocked　it。　Hank　hit　nothing　but　air。　He　lost　his　balance　and　fell　across　the　plate；　and　when　the　Spanish　chorus　exploded　again；　I　thought　he　might　attack　all　of　them。　He　stood　up；　squinted　at　Cowboy　and　mumbled　something；　then　resumed　his　position　at　the　plate。
　　　Two　outs；　two　strikes；　two　on。　Cowboy　finished　him　off　with　a　fast…ball。　Hank　speared　the　bat　into　the　ground　when　he　finishing　flailing　at　the　pitch。
　　　〃Don't　throw　the　bat！〃　my　father　said　loudly。　〃If　you　can't　be　a　sport；　then　don't　play。〃　We　were　walking　onto　the　field　as　the　Mexicans　hurried　off。
　　　Hank　gave　my　father　a　look　of　disgust；　but　he　said　nothing。　For　some　reason　it　was　determined　that　I　would　pitch。　〃Throw　the　first　inning；　Luke；〃　my　father　said。　I　didn't　want　to。　I　was　no　match　for　Cowboy。　We　were　about　to　be　embarrassed　at　our　own　game。
　　　Hank　was　at　first；　Bo　at　second；　Dale　at　third。　Tally　was　in　left…center；　hands　on　hips；　and　Trot　was　in　right　field　looking　for　four…leaf　clovers。　What　a　defense！　With　my　pitching　we　needed　to　put　all　of　our　fielders　as　far　away　from　home　plate　as　possible。
　　　Miguel　sent　Roberto　to　the　plate　first；　and　I　was　sure　this　was　deliberate；　because　the　poor　guy　had　never　seen　a　baseball。　He　hit　a　lazy　pop…up　that　my　father　caught　at　shortstop。　Pepe　hit　a　fly　ball　that　my　father　caught　behind　second　base。　Two　up；　two　outs；　I　was　on　a　roll；　but　my　luck　was　about　to　run　out。　The　serious　sticks　lined　up；　one　after　the　other；　and　hit　baseballs　all　over　our　farm。　I　tried　fastballs；　curveballs；　change…ups；　it　didn't　matter。　They　scored　runs　by　the　truckload；　and　had　a　delightful　time　doing　it。　I　was　miserable　because　I　was　getting　shelled；　but　it　was　also　amusing　to　watch　the　Mexicans　dance　and　celebrate　as　the　rout　hit　full　stride。
　　　My　mother　and　Gran　were　sitting　under　a　tree；　watching　the　spectacle　with　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Spruill。　Everyone　was　accounted　for　except　Pappy；　who　was　still　in　town。
　　　When　they'd　scored　about　ten　runs；　my　father　called　time　and　walked　to　the　mound。　〃You　had　enough？〃　he　asked。
　　　What　a　ridiculous　question。　〃I　suppose；〃　I　said。
　　　〃Take　a　break；〃　he　said。
　　　〃I　can　pitch；〃　Hank　yelled　from　first　base。　My　father　hesitated　for　a　second；　then　tossed　him　the　ball。　I　wanted　to　go　to　right　field；　out　with　Trot；　where　there　wasn't　much　happening；　but　my　coach　said；　〃Go　to　first。〃
　　　I　knew　from　experience　that　Hank　Spruill　had　remarkable　quickness。　He　had　taken　down　the　three　Siscos　in　a　matter　of　seconds。　So　it　was　no　great　surprise　to　see　him　throw　a　baseball　as　if　he'd　been　throwing　one　for　years。　He　looked　confident　taking　his　windup　and　catching　the　ball　from　Rico。　He　threw　three　nice　fastballs　by　Luis；　and　the　first　inning　massacre　was　over。　Miguel　informed　my　father　that　they　had　scored　eleven　runs。　It　seemed　like　fifty。
　　　Cowboy　returned　to　the　mound　and　took　up　where　he　left　off。　Dale　went　down　on　strikes；　and　my　father　stepped　to　the　plate。　He　anticipated　a　fastball；　got　one；　and　ripped　it　hard；　a　long　fly　ball　that　curved　foul　and　landed　deep　in　the　cotton　patch。　Pablo　went　to　search　for　it　while　we　used　my　other　ball。　Under　no　circumstances　would　we　leave　the　game　until　both　baseballs　were　accounted　for。
　　　The　second　pitch　was　a　hard　curve；　and　my　father's　knees　buckled　before　he　read　the　pitch。　〃That　was　a　strike；〃　he　said；　shaking　his　head　in　wonder。　〃It　was　also　a　major　league　curveball；〃　he　said　just　loud　enough　to　be　heard　but　to　no　one　in　particular。
　　　He　flied　to　shallow　center；　where　Miguel　cradled　the　ball　with　both　hands；　and　the　team　from　Arkansas　was　about　to　get　shut　out　again。　Tally　strolled　to　the　plate。　Cowboy　stopped　his　scowling　and　walked　halfway　in。　He　tossed　a　couple　underhanded；　trying　to　hit　her　bat；　and　she　finally　hit　a　slow　roller　to　second；　where　two　Mexicans　fought　over　it　long　enough　for　the　runner　to　be　safe。
　　　I　was　next。　〃Choke　up　a　little；〃　my　father　said；　and　I　did。　I　would've　done　anything。　Cowboy　tossed　one　even　slower；　a　lazy　looping　pitch　that　I　smacked　to　center　field。　The　Mexicans　went　wild。　Everyone　cheered。　I　was　a　little　embarrassed　by　all　the　fuss；　but　it　sure　beat　striking　out。　The　pressure　was　off；　my　future　as　a　Cardinal　was　back　on　track。
　　　Trot　swung　at　the　first　three　and　missed　them　all　by　at　least　a　foot。　〃Four　strikes；〃　Miguel　said；　and　the　rules　were　changed　again。　When　you're　leading　by　eleven　runs　in　the　second　inning；　you　can　afford　to　be　generous。　Trot　chopped　at　the　pitch；　and　the　ball　rolled　back　to　Cowboy；　who　just　for　the　fun　of　it　threw　to　third　in　a　vain　effort　to　catch　Tally。　She　was　safe；　the　bases　were　loaded。　The　Mexicans　were　trying　to　give　us　runs。　Bo　walked　to　the　plate；　but　Cowboy　did　not　retreat　to　the　mound。　He　lobbed　one　underhanded；　and　Bo　hit　a　scorching　ground　ball　to　short；　where　Pablo　lunged　to　avoid　it。　Tally　scored；　and　I　moved　to　third。
　　　Hank　picked　up　the　bat　and　ripped　a　few　practice　swings。　With　the　bases　loaded；　he　was　thinking　of　only　one　thing…a　grand　slam。　Cowboy　had　other　plans。　He　stepped　back　and　stopped　smiling。　Hank　hovered　over　the　plate；　staring　down　the　pitcher；　daring　him　to　throw　something　he　could　hit。
　　　The　infield　noise　died　for　a　moment；　the　Mexicans　crept　forward；　on　their　toes；　anxious　to　take　part　in　this　encounter。　The　first　pitch　was　a　blistering　fastball　that　crossed　the　plate　a　fraction　of　a　second　after　Cowboy　released　it。　Hank　never　thought　about　swinging；　he　never　had　the　chance。　He　backed　away　from　the　plate　and　seemed　to　concede　that　he　was　overmatched。　I　glanced　at　my　father；　who　was　shaking　his　head。　How　hard　could　Cowboy　throw？
　　　Then　he　threw　a　fat　curve；　one　that　looked　tempting　but　broke　out　of　the　strike　zone。　Hank　ripped　but　never　got　close。　Then　a　hard　curve；　one　that　went　straight　at　his　head　and；　at　the　last　second；　dipped　across　the　plate。　Hank's　face　was　blood…red。
　　　Another　fastball　that　Hank　lunged　at。　Two　strikes；　bases　loaded；　two　outs。　Without　the　slightest　hint　of　a　smile；　Cowboy　decided　to　play　a　little。　He　threw　a　slow　curve　that　broke　outside；　then　a　harder　one　that　made　Hank　duck。　Then　another　slow　one　that　he　almost　chopped　at。　I　got　the　impression　that　Cowboy　could　wrap　a　baseball　around　Hank's　head　if　he　wanted。　The　defense　was　chattering　again；　at　full　volume。
　　　Strike　three　was　a　knuckleball　that　floated　up　to　the　plate　and　looked　slow　enough　for　me　to　hit。　But　it　wobbled　and　dipped。　Hank　took　a　mighty　swing；　missed　by　a　foot；　and　again　landed　in　the　dirt。　He　screamed　a　nasty　word　and　threw　the　bat　near　my　father。
　　　〃Watch　your　language；〃　my　father　said；　picking　up　the　bat。
　　　Hank　mumbled　something　else　and　dusted　himself　off。　Our　half　of　the　inning　was　over。
　　　Miguel　walked　to　the　plate　in　the　bottom　of　the　second。　Hank's　first　pitch　went　straight　for　his　head；　almost　hitting　it。　The　ball　bounced　off　the　silo　and　rolled　to　a　stop　near　third　base。　The　Mexicans　were　silent。　The　second　pitch　was　even　harder；　and　two　feet　inside。　Again；　Miguel　hit　the　dirt；　and　his　teammates　began　mumbling。
　　　〃Stop　the　foolishness！〃　my　father　said　loudly　from　shortstop。　〃Just　throw　strikes。〃
　　　Hank　offered　him　his　customary　sneer。　He　threw　the　ball　over　the　plate；　and　Miguel　slapped　it　to　right　field；　where　Trot　was　playing　defense　with　his　back　to　home　plate；　staring　at　the　distant　tree　line　of　the　St。　Francis　River。　Tally　raced　after　the　ball　and　stopped　when　she　reached　the　edge　of　the　cotton。　A　ground　rule　triple。
　　　The　next　pitch　was　the　last　of　the　game。　Cowboy　was　the　batter。　Hank　reached　back　for　all　the　juice　he　could　find；　and　he　hurled　a　fastball　directly　at　Cowboy。　He　ducked　but　didn't　move　back　fast　enough；　and　the　ball　hit　him　square　in　the　ribs　with　the　sickening　sound　of　a　melon　landing　on　bricks。　Cowboy　emitted　a　quick　scream；　but　just　as　quickly　he　threw　my　bat　like　a　tomahawk；　end　over　end　with　all　the　speed　he　could　muster。　It　didn't　land　where　it　should　have…between　Hank's　eyes。　Instead；　it　bounced　at　his　feet　and　ricocheted　off　his　shins。　He　screamed　an　obscenity　and　instantly　charged　like　a　crazed　bull。
　　　Others