Free Twelfth Angel by Og Mandino Page B

came to see him.”
    “Well, since he probably helped deliver most of our team into this world, as well as the rest of the league, I imagine he’s keeping his eye on all of them. Quite a guy! Must be almost ninety, but he can still hit a golf ball a long way, believe me.”
    During our final two practice sessions Timothy and I worked on his fielding and base running. On fly balls I began by merely tossing them up into the air, coaching him to hold his hands over his head and catch the ball with both. After he had caught perhaps ten tossed balls in a row, I grabbed a bat, sent him out to shallow center field and began hitting gentle pop-ups. It seemed to take him far too much time to see the ball in flight before he moved toward it. I wondered if his eyesight was at fault, but he said he had been checked at school in May and they had told him that his vision was normal. Could it be his reflexes, perhaps? I didn’t know. Also, his running was terribly slow, whether he was chasing after a fly ball or going from base to base, and the expression on his tiny face, when he ran, was always one of great effort. I finally asked him, “Timothy, does it hurt you to run?”
    “No,” he gasped. “I just keep trying to make my legs go faster, but they don’t. They will, though, you wait. They will. I’ll never give up … never! I’ll be faster!”
    Following our final preseason practice each player received his official Angel uniform, gray with the letter
A
in large dark-blue script on the left side of the shirt. The caps and socks were also in dark blue, and as Bill handed a box to each player, he said he hoped and prayed that he had measured everyone correctly.
    I was loading bats and balls into the canvas bags when I sensed that Timothy was standing close by.
    “Yes, Timothy?”
    “Mr. Harding, thank you very much for all your help. My mother said to tell you thank you for her too. I know I’m a better player now.” He grinned and then said, “Day by day … day by day.…”
    I smiled and extended my hand. “Good luck, all season. You’re going to do fine, trust me.”
    He nodded enthusiastically. I wanted to pick him up and hug him as I had always hugged Rick.
    “Good night, Mr. Harding.”
    “God bless, Timothy. Don’t forget. First game next Tuesday at five against the Yankees. Be here no later than four-fifteen.”
    I stood and watched until bike and rider turned the corner and were out of sight. Then I returned to the dugout and sat until long after darkness had fallen, praying to God for the strength to hold on.…

IX
 
    I hadn’t felt so nervous since that memorable day, not very long ago, when I had stood to address the board of directors of Millennium Unlimited for the first time.
    All the pregame activities had been completed and the opening-day ceremonies were now drawing to a close as everyone in Boland Little League Park rose to the strains of our national anthem from the loudspeaker system affixed to the top of the tall wire backstop.
    It had been almost thirty years since I had played my last Little League game, but the routine prior to the game had not changed even a little in all that time. The first-, second-, and third-base canvas bags had already been anchored down at their proper spots on the diamond by the time Bill and I arrived at the park and unloadedour equipment. Since we were the designated home team for this opening game, our dugout was the one behind third base.
    Bill broke out our ball bag, and our lads started throwing on the sidelines. Sid Marx, the Yankee manager, waved in our direction and then came across the diamond, shook hands, and we wished each other good luck. Each team took infield practice, Yankees first. When it was our turn, I hit three easy grounders to Paul Taylor at third, Ben Rogers at shortstop, Tony Zullo at second and Justin Nurnberg at first. Although they were all obviously tense, our infield handled all my batted balls flawlessly. Behind our dugout Todd