Free Mudville by Kurtis Scaletta

like I've never seen it. My dad collapses into his favorite chair, the remote control in his hand. Yogi clambers up to the arm of the chair and sits in a stately pose, looking like he ought to be in front of the New York Public Library.
    “Bobby Fitz,” my dad says with a happy sigh as the Moundville pitcher takes the mound. “Best baseball player I ever knew. He was going to be a superstar.” To prove hispoint, Bobby Fitz makes short work of the Sinister Bend batters in the top of the first inning.
    “So what happened to him?” Sturgis wonders. “Is he fa-mous now?”
    “Last I heard, he was selling insurance in Sutton.”
    “That's too bad.”
    “Hey, there's nothing wrong with that.” My dad sounds a little defensive. “People in Sutton need insurance, too.”
    “I didn't mean anything,” Sturgis says apologetically. “Anyway, let's watch this.” He leans forward in his chair as the Bend pitcher takes the mound.
    He's a tall, mean-looking boy with unkempt hair. He throws hard. Really hard. The ball seems to be smoking as he hurls it at the catcher.
    “Bobby was our leadoff hitter, too,” my dad points out as the first Moundville batter steps into the box. He knocks the first pitch over the pitcher's head for a base hit but is tagged out trying to stretch the single into a double. He limps off the field.
    “Pulled his hamstring.” My dad shakes his head, remembering. “What bad luck. Every year, something like that. Moundville was just flat-out cursed.”
    “I thought you didn't believe in curses,” Sturgis reminds him.
    “I don't believe in weather curses. Baseball curses are a whole nother ball of wax.”
    The Bend pitcher strikes out the next batter, and thenext kid comes to the plate. He's tall and blond, his hair long enough to stick out beneath his batting helmet. He looks at the pitcher with a big toothy grin, like he's not one bit scared. The pitcher zips in three pitches and strikes him out looking at a belt-high fastball.
    “That was me,” my dad tells Sturgis, who nods.
    “I guessed,” he says. “You look exactly like Roy.”
    The Sinister Bend team proceeds to knock the new Moundville pitcher around like a tetherball, while the Bend pitcher glides through the innings. It's eleven to zero by the middle of the fourth inning.
    “Look at these clouds gathering.” My dad freezes the frame so we can appreciate them. “It's starting to drizzle, see?” He indicates the vertical lines on the screen.
    “I thought it was just the graininess of the old video,” says Sturgis.
    “Our coach had this great idea,” says my dad. “He told us to play for the rain delay. The game wouldn't be official until the end of the fourth inning. If it was rained out, we could start over with a clean slate and a healthy pitcher. He told us to work the count, foul off pitches, and dawdle as much as possible.”
    We watch the first two batters ground out, and my dad comes up to bat.
    I've counted his foul-offs every time I watch the video, but I always get a different number. We watch Dad foul off pitch after pitch. He hits balls into the stands, right downthe line, everywhere but fair. The fans have to toss the balls back because they've run out. It slows the game down even more, while the rain picks up.
    You can see the pitcher getting annoyed and tired, losing speed and control of his pitches. My dad even takes a few balls, mixed in with the fouls, until he has a full count. Then comes his famous base hit. He's just trying to protect the plate, but the ball stays fair. The crowd groans, then cheers as the ball gets past the third baseman.
    We lose track of him as the camera follows the ball. The left fielder is running to field it but slips in the wet grass. The ball rolls to the fence. The center fielder bare-hands it but can't get a grip on it. The camera swoops back toward the in-field. My dad has rounded the bases and comes home with no play at the plate. He's greeted by the rest of his team with high