Free Why Dogs Chase Cars by George Singleton

and curves in our direction. I wasn’t the only player to take a mighty swing
afte
r the ball reached the catcher’s mitt and he threw back to his pitcher. One time I actually got twostrikes called on me by the umpire because I stood there and watched for strike one, then fouled off a ball as the catcher threw back and I finally swung.
    Let me make it clear that the grounds on which we played needed regular tending before each game, for hunters would steal onto the field at night, regardless of legal hunting season, and deposit salt blocks and mounds of sweet corn to attract deer. If anyone decided to sleep in the bleachers overnight, like my friend Compton Lane and I did once, he’d be awoken an hour before dawn by camouflaged men sporting anything from .410 shotguns to thirty-aught-sixes. D.R. and his assistant coaches sent us out like boys with metal detectors to scour the rye grass between the infield and the cheap outfield signs advertising 45 OFFICE SUPPLY , 45 EXTERMINATION , 45 FLORISTS , 45 LUMBER , 45 GRAVEL AND AS PHALT , 45 MEN’S WEAR , 45 DEBS AND BRIDES , 45 JEANS , the
FORTY-FIVE PLATTER
newspaper, 45 TRASH PICK-UP , 45 RECORDS , 45 MODERN BARBERS (who sponsored our Little League team, the Flattops), SUNKEN GARDENS LOUNGE (which
used
to sponsor our team before Mr. Red Edwards decided he couldn’t afford a losing team’s destruction of his reputation), and RUFUS PRICE’S GOAT WAGON store. We took wheelbarrows out with us while the opposing team got to stretch, run wind sprints, take infield practice, and get ready to raise their collective batting averages.
    â€œJust do the best you can, Mendal,” my father always said as we pulled into the parking lot of the Forty-Five reccenter. “I’ll talk to D. R. and see if we can’t get you playing first base, or left field.” More than once he’d said something about how Bennie Frewer didn’t really have head lice, and that it was okay for us to touch the baseball after Bennie threw it in from right field on those odd occasions when somebody from the other team didn’t hit the ball over the fence and Bennie would gather it up and throw it to first or second base.
    â€œI don’t like being catcher,” I said to my dad. “I’m a faster runner than anyone else. Why’s D. R. have me be Yancey’s catcher? A slow fat guy usually plays catcher. I’ve seen it on TV.” Me, I crouched every game, waiting for Yancey to throw one of his knuckleballs. I waved my arm back and forth like a windshield wiper in hopes of only touching the ball coming my way. A blind boy could’ve caught for Yancey just as well.
    My father never answered. Years later, I would think that for some reason he knew it would be best for me to hear what went on in the stands, right behind me, as I crouched, eyes closed, while the slow projectiles came my way.
    â€œHey, Mendal, you might want to get two catcher’s masks,” Coach D.R. Pope said more than once. “Find a way to fashion one over your privates.”
    â€œYessir,” I always squeaked out. D. R. held up his right hand with that thumb and little finger poked out like the biggest peace sign ever, like a big-time Texas Longhorns fan, like a deaf man saying he loved me, like—I would learnlater—a man trying to approximate the length of his pecker.
    â€œWe don’t want to set no records as to the worst team in Little League baseball, Mendal. You a smart boy. Can’t you not figure out nothing to say back there to avert the batter none?”
    I’d think, This is some kind of double- or triple- or quadruple-negative trick on me. And then I’d crouch, and close my eyes, and smile with glee about every tenth time, when I’d actually catch a ball thrown by Yancey that didn’t either get thrown in the dirt or smacked straight over the 45 FEED AND SEED COMPANY sign in center field.
    I sat in front of the umpire two