Free The Rail by Howard Owen

from West Creek or Mosby Forks.
    Since school ended, Neil Beauchamp had chosen to watch the older boys instead of joining the ones his age. He had played softball at recess and felt that here was something that could make him happy, something at which he could excel, if he had the chance.
    On this day, with two outfielders lost to summer jobs, perhaps some of the older boys remembered that Neil could outrun most of the 10-year-olds, or maybe they noticed that he was as tall as some of them.
    He heard one of them ask another, the big red-haired boy who always batted cleanup for one of the two teams, if “that little sack of shit over there” could play. He didn’t hear what the redhead said, but the first boy walked a couple of steps toward him and said, “Hey. You wanna play?”
    Some of the others complained, the ones who were already smoking, telling jokes Neil didn’t understand but laughed at when he heard them from outside the circle because he knew he was supposed to.
    â€œHe’s only eight. He’s just a baby,” he heard one of them say.
    But they let him play even though he didn’t own a glove. The next-best option was a boy a year older who sometimes played jump-rope with the girls.
    He hit ninth, of course. He didn’t get to bat until the third inning; until then, his only action was running in from right field to back up the first baseman on two ground-ball outs, trying to impress with his boundless desire.
    By then, it was almost sunset. The games lasted, usually, until the failing light caused someone to lose a fly ball or get hit by a pitch. Neil knew he had only one at-bat coming.
    They all moved in on him. The three outfielders were just a few steps back of the worn base paths. In the distance, he could hear the train whistle signifying the return of the rail line’s one engine to its terminus.
    â€œAwright, easy out,” he heard someone say.
    â€œLet him hit it,” another fielder, a boy smoking a cigarette while he played an indifferent third base, called out.
    â€œLike hell,” the pitcher, a boy just out of eighth grade, responded. He wound up and threw the ball.
    The first pitch that came Neil’s way, the first ball thrown overhand toward him in a game, he swung at. He somehow knew he would hit it, and he did, hard enough that it went past the right and center fielders on the fly. They were too stunned to even chase it for a long second, and by the time the ball had been retrieved and relayed to the infield, Neil Beauchamp was sliding into third base, the way he had seen the bigger boys do it. He can still remember the first sweet sound of cheers from the handful of grown men who were watching.
    He never missed a game after that, when William Beauchamp could spare him at the store. He didn’t hit a triple every time, and he was 10 before one of his long fly balls reached the tracks for a home run, but he was better than many boys three years older. He had, beyond size and speed, the reflexes and eyesight that would carry him even after the more obvious physical skills began to break apart. He could see the individual stitches as the ball left the pitcher’s hand; when time speeded up for the less talented, more excitable boys, it slowed down for Neil Beauchamp.
    He never forgot anything he saw on a baseball field, never failed to practice what he was shown until he had honed it to near perfection. He was the student that he never would be in the classroom.
    William did not care very much for baseball. He was forced to work in his father’s store when he was younger than Neil, he told Jenny, and he could see no good coming from a boy wasting his life chasing a ball. Jenny interceded, though, and Neil was allowed to earn enough money at the store to buy a fielder’s glove and a bat by the time the next spring came around.
    The glove he rubbed with neat’s-foot oil every year. But it was the bat that he really wanted, even