Page 81 of Perfect Mess

“Mary!” Kyle dropped his bat and ran over to greet me. I was shocked when he grabbed onto my legs for a hug. Gary’s smile only widened. Much like Purrfect, I think he enjoyed my discomfort.

“So how many home runs did you hit today?” I asked, looking down at the small human wrapped around my lower torso.

Kyle took a moment to think, squinting in the sun. “Zero,” he announced.

“You’ll get a bunch next time, I’m sure,” I said..

“You haven’t watched me play, have you?” Kyle picked his bat up and skipped to home plate.

“So you want to play outfield or catcher?” Gary asked from the pitcher’s mound.

“Neither?” From Gary’s face, I could tell that wasn’t one of my options.

“Catcher it is,” Gary said. He got me a glove from his coach’s bag and helped me slide it on to my hand. “All you have to do is stand behind home plate.” Gary pointed. “Then try to catch the ball if it comes to you.”

“I know how to play catcher,” I replied.

“You play baseball?” Gary looked amused.

“My dad made me play when I was little,” I explained.

“Interesting,” said Gary.

“Not really.” Before we started playing golf together, my dad made me play little league in an attempt at daddy-daughter bonding. I spent a lot of time on the bench.

As I moved behind home plate, I could tell Gary had his doubts. “What, you don’t think I can do this?” I asked.

Gary shrugged. “I never said that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I think you’re thinking it right now.”

“I think you think too much,” Gary said.

“I think I think just enough.”

“I guess we’ll see,” said Gary. “Okay Kyle, let’s show Mary what you’ve got.”

We took our positions. Out on the pitcher’s mound, Gary held the ball up in the air, waiting for Kyle to set his stance. Kyle hefted the bat with both hands, resting it on his shoulder as he set his feet.

“Okay now, keep your eye on the ball.” Gary twisted the ball in his hand, waiting for Kyle to stay still. “Just before it crosses over the plate, that’s when you swing.”

Kyle nodded, the batting helmet flopping back and forth on his head.

Gary pitched. Kyle missed. I picked the ball up off the ground and tossed it back. This went on for the next five minutes.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “His grip is too low,” I told Gary, pointing down at Kyle’s bat. I squatted down, so that Kyle and I were face to face. “Hold the bat like this.” Gently, I adjusted the position of his hands. “Move up a little. There. Now step back from the plate a bit. Give the ball a little more space.”

I put my hands on Kyle’s shoulders and tugged him back another step. “Now, as soon as the ball comes down, right about here.” I drew an imaginary line in front of him. “That’s when you swing.” A flock of vultures perched on the fence for a front-row seat, their beady black eyes fixed on the proceedings.

“Pitch it,” I ordered Gary, backing up a step.

Gary didn’t look very confident. Neither did the flock of vultures. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

Gary tossed the ball. It sailed through the air, an easy backspin making it float in slow motion. In unison, the vultures turned their heads to watch the ball rise, then fall, gravity pulling it toward home plate.

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