For Love of the Game by Michael Shaara

part of the brain while Chapel dreamed along, firing away, not quite so fast now, that was unnecessary, not trying to strike them out anymore but getting them to hit one soon, pop it up, ground it out, foul it, and so it went; no oneeven got a fly into the outfield and the three were down. Chapel had a moment of splendid peace, warmth in the arm. A rare day. A fine day. All my life … this is what I was born to do. He sat … went back into the darkness.…
        … and saw his father, Pops, catcher’s mitt resting on the left knee. Twelve years old: Billy boy. Pop went out there with this big catcher’s mitt and he’d move it around, and wherever he moved it Billy would throw until he hit the mitt. First the right, then the left.… “Always keep ’em down, Billy, except the wasters. And throw them
fast
. That’s right. Keep
’em down
. If they have to go for ’em low like that they don’t hit ’em straight, you see what I mean? The higher you pitch ’em …” he held the glove up to his chest, “the easier you make it for them. Oh, you fake ’em
sometimes
. A little too high. Too far inside. But
never
right here” … in the center of the chest. “Never down the tube, Billy. You move that ball around and shave all the edges, hit the corners, inside outside, never give ’em a good one, a soft easy one. But don’t waste ’em too low, unless, well, now hit the
left
knee. Fastball, Billy. No need for the curve yet. When you’re older. You wait for the curve, when the arm is ready. Come on, Billy. Ah! That was great! Right on the money. Ah, kid, you’ve got a future. So help me God, you’ve got a natural-born.…”
    … they went out on this dirt road out in thewoods, and Pop had picked this one straight part as long as the rubber to the plate would be, and a place where the road had a natural mound where it came round a curve in the trees, and he and Pops went out there to practice … and Billy grew up.…
    … driving one day in the mountains … Pop with Mom in the front seat and Billy, the only child, always the only kid there, no brother, no sister, none ever, never knew why, too late to ask, and he was always in the backseat and they were talking about him thinking he was asleep and wouldn’t hear, but he heard, always to remember.
    “Ah, lady love, but we’re lucky. Who else is so lucky? He’s such a good kid. Such a good sweet decent kid. And can he throw that ball. Godamighty, he’s a natural.”
    “Oh he is. There’s something just, well, just
nice
in our boy. Wonder who he got it from?”
    “Certainly not me. Couldn’t be me.”
    “Oh, you. You’re … all right.”
    “Can’t help wondering if sometime, if maybe God didn’t have somethin’ to do with it.”
    Billy listened. Pop didn’t like church. Was against hell … and preachers.
    Mom said: “Well, honey, you know, someday we maybe ought to let him just sit in at the church. People at school … some of the children laugh at him, you know.”
    “Nope. No church. Not yet. Not for Billy. Theydo nothin’ but hellfire and brimstone, scarin’ poor little kids to death, givin’ ’em nightmares on how
evil
they are just thinkin’—
no
. Billy don’t need none of that.”
    “But Billy … you know lately … the boy is alone.”
    Silence.
    Pop: “He does love … the game.”
    Mom: “Yes, but.…”
    Pop: “Tell me this. Now tell me. Do you think he plays … just for me?”
    Mom: “What? Land sakes.…”
    Pop: “No. I mean it. I love the game myself. And Billy knows that. And he’s such a sweet kid. Do you think he goes out there … ’cause I want him to?”
    Mom: “Now. Ridiculous.”
    Pop: “Honest.”
    Mom: “Well, maybe he started that way. Maybe it helps him. Yes. I think it does help him. The way you root for him. But you know and I know and now everybody knows, that boy is
good
at pitchin’. And he knows that, too. It’s … natural. And he’s lucky to have that.