Free Mudville by Kurtis Scaletta Page B

potatoes back and forth.
    “I love this one!” my dad says when one of the shows comes on. He points at the TV with a chicken leg and starts to explain to Sturgis how the actor playing a minor character went on to be someone else in a different TV show.
    He hasn't been this happy since the rain stopped. I don't know if this is better or worse than stressing out about his business, but it's definitely messier.

It keeps on not raining. On Saturday, I call Steve and we head down to the park to chuck the ball around. I bring Sturgis, and Steve brings a bunch of guys, including Tim and Miggy. They nod hello to Sturgis, but I can guess they're a little peeved about the tantrum he threw at the rec center.
    We don't have enough gloves to go around, so I hand mine off to Tim. It's good for a catcher to toughen up his hands anyway. Sturgis's pitches are a little hot to handle, though, even when he means to throw them soft. He doesn't say much, just catches the ball and throws it back, always with a little steam on it.
    Tim and Miggy keep throwing the ball in the mud and over our heads. I show them how to put their fingers on the ball properly, and pretty soon they're throwing straight. Straighter anyway.
    “When do we get to hit?” asks Kazuo. He's one of the new guys. I don't know him that well because he's a year behind me in school.
    “I brought a bat,” I tell him. “It'll be good to get some swings in.”
    First we have to pace out where the mound ought to be, then estimate where the bases are. We just draw
Xs
in the mud for the bases and kick a little mud around for the pitcher's mound.
    I put on my catcher's mitt and get behind the so-called plate, and Steve throws some soft stuff at this other sixth grader named David. David swings and misses on the first five or six pitches. Finally, he makes contact, and the ball rolls through the mud, back to Steve.
    “I got a hit!” he says, running to first base.
    I laugh. “Only because we don't have a first baseman,” I tell him. “Normally, you'd be out by a mile.”
    Kazuo has better instincts. He doesn't swing at every pitch, and when he does, he takes a good swing. He knocks what might be a bona fide hit up the middle, but he drops the bat and runs to third.
    “You need to go
that
way,” I yell to Kazuo, pointing at first base.
    “Sorry,” Kazuo says, looking bewildered. “I think I got confused because I was batting left-handed.”
    “You were batting
right
-handed,” I tell him. “Don't you know left from right?”
    “Well, sure,” he says, but he sounds a little unsure.
    “Wait a second,” I say. “You said you were batting left. Do you mean you can also bat right? I mean, you were really batting right-handed, but do you mean you can also bat left?”
    He looks more confused than ever.
    “Can you bat both ways?” I ask him.
    “Sure!” he says. “I can do everything both ways. I can write letters with both hands, draw, eat, everything. I can even throw both-handed. I think that's why I get confused. It's all the same to me.”
    Sturgis takes a few swings, too, but can't catch up with the pitch.
    “Maybe he can scare the ball with his face,” David says to Kazuo, who shakes his head and kicks at the ground in disgust. Sturgis turns and glares at them both. When he swings again, he's way out in front. He swears and drops the bat in the mud.
    “Hey,” I say, picking up the bat, wishing I had something to wipe off the mud.
    “Sorry, Roy.” He takes the bat from me and wipes the mud on his shorts before handing it back. “Can I pitch now?”
    “Sure. Steve, let Sturgis pitch to you.”
    Steve trades places with Sturgis, and I signal for the fastball. Sturgis scorches one in there, and Steve steps back in surprise.
    “Strike one!” I call.
    “No way,” Steve says, shaking his head.
    “It had the corner.” I toss the ball back to Sturgis and signal for another fastball over the plate. Sturgis throws one even harder, right in the zone. Steve