Free The Youngest Hero by Jerry B. Jenkins Page B

always say.”
    “Go ahead and tell me.”
    “Momma, what I’m starting to really like about baseball is that I’m so good at it. I love for people to see me play. Nothing
     makes me feel better than for you to tell me I did good. And I love it when everybody stops and watches.”
    “That would make me so nervous I would just fall apart,” I said.
    “Not me,” Elgin said. “I pretend not to notice, but I do. It was great when people in tryouts or at practices talked about
     me. But when we got into games and I did something that made people clap and cheer, well—”
    I looked at him. He seemed unable to find the words.
    “A little humility would do you some good, Elgin.”
    “Now, see, Momma, I told you you would think that. But I’m not bragging. I’m just trying to be honest. I don’t know how I
     got so good, except Daddy was good and he taught me everything. I’m fast and I’m tall and I’ve got a good arm. But I don’t
     think that’s that important.”
    “What is?”
    “I just love the game so much. You know I love the game.”
    “Do I ever! You love it more than anybody ought to. I mean, you see things in this game your daddy never saw, and that’s the
     truth.”
    “It’s a beautiful game, Momma.”
    “I know. I didn’t always know. But you’re teaching me, and more than your dad did.”
    “Really?”
    “Honest. I can’t get into all those statistics you love and everything, but the little things you notice, the strategy you
     come up with, well—maybe you oughta be a coach someday.”
    “You mean after I’ve played twenty years in the big leagues?”
    I smacked him on the shoulder. “Mr. Humble,” I said. And I hugged him. He stiffened and pulled away and I realized he was
     getting past the age where he would let me do that in public.
    The eight- and nine-year-olds were cavorting on the field, baseballs flying everywhere. When the ten- through twelve-year-olds
     were called to a nearby football field, Elgin jumped up and began to run. He skidded to a stop, raced back, shed his coat,
     and took off again, this time forgetting his glove. He whirled to get it and I tossed it to him. I surprised him and he missed
     it.
    “Hope you get an ovation for that!” I said. “If you can’t catch a big old floppy glove thrown by an old woman—”
    “You don’t look that old to me,” a man said from behind me.
    I hated myself for turning to look, but it had been instinct.
    “Good morning,” the man said.
    He looked younger than I, no wedding band.
    “Good morning,” I said lifelessly, turning back as if to watch the tryout.
    “My son is just starting,” he said. “Your boy?”
    “Second year,” I said, turning only enough so he could hear. “He’s almost eleven.”
    “Go on! I’m talking about the one who was just here.”
    “So am I,” I said, my hands in my pockets, one fingering a copy of Elgin’s birth certificate. Would it always be this way?
    “That boy’s eleven?”
    “Almost,” I said, unable to mask the sarcasm. “Almost eleven is ten.”
    “Well, it sure is, isn’t it?” he said, scooting down to my row. I looked the other way, frustrated and disappointed. I wasn’t
     that lonely. And I wanted to watch Elgin play. The field where hewas trying out was to my left, and when the man noticed I was looking that way, he moved to that side of me. Now I was angry
     and would not look at him. I answered him in the least cordial ways I could think of, short of rudeness.
    The man kept trying to get me to watch his Robin. Robin! Who would name a boy Robin?
    “What’s your boy’s name?”
    “Elgin.”
    “Elgin! Now there’s a name for you! I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a person named Elgin before! I mean, there’s Elgin Watches,
     and the city of Elgin. Oh, course there was the basketball player, Elgin Baylor, but I think that’s the only other one I’ve
     heard of.”
    “Really?” I said, as if I didn’t care.
    “Yeah! How bout you?”
    “Me?”