A prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving Read Free Book Online Page A

and worry (with the pitcher and the
catcher) about the possibilities of the next pitch. That day, in the last
inning, Owen and I were just waiting for the game to be over. We were so bored,
we had no idea that someone's life was about to be over, too. Our side was up.
Our team was far behind-we had been substituting second-string players for
first-string players so often and so randomly that I could no longer recognize
half of our own batters-and I had lost track of my place in the batting order.
I wasn't sure when I got to be up to bat next, and I was about to ask our nice,
fat manager and coach, Mr. Chickering, when Mr. Chickering turned to Owen Meany
and said, "You bat for Johnny, Owen."
    "But I don't know when I bat," I said to Mr.
Chickering, who didn't hear me; he was looking off the field somewhere. He was
bored with the game, too, and he was just waiting for it to be over, like the
rest of us.
    • KNOW WHEN YOU BAT," Owen said. That was forever
irritating about Owen; he kept track of things like that. He hardly ever got to
play the stupid game, but he paid attention to all the boring details, anyway.
    "IF HARRY GETS ON, I'M ON DECK," Owen said. "IF
BUZZY GETS ON, I'M UP."
    "Fat chance," I said. "Or is there only one
out?"
    "TWO OUT," Owen said. Everyone on the bench was
looking off the field, somewhere-even Owen, now-and I turned my attention to
the intriguing object of their interest. Then I saw hen my mother. She'd just
arrived. She was always late; she found the game boring, too. She had an
instinct for arriving just in time to take me and Owen home. She was even a
sweater girl in the summer, because she favored those summer-weight jersey
        dresses; she had a
nice tan, and the dress was a simple, white-cotton one-clinging about the bosom
and waist, full skirt below-and she wore a red scarf to hold her hair up, off
her bare shoulders. She wasn't watching the game. She was standing well down
the left-field foul line, past third base, looking into the sparse stands, the
almost-empty bleacher seats-trying to see if there was anyone she knew there, I
guess. I realized that everyone was watching her. This was nothing new for me.
Everyone was always staring at my mother, but the scrutiny seemed especially
intense that day, or else I am remembering it acutely because it was the last
time I saw her alive. The pitcher was looking at home plate, the catcher was
waiting for the ball; the batter, I suppose, was waiting for the ball, too; but
even the fielders had turned their heads to gape at my mother. Everyone on our
bench was watching her-Mr. Chickering, the hardest; maybe Owen, the next
hardest; maybe me, the least. Everyone in the stands stared back at her as she
looked them over. It was ball four. Maybe the pitcher had one eye on my mother,
too. Harry Hoyt walked. Buzzy Thurston was up, and Owen was on deck. He got up
from the bench and looked for the smallest bat. Buzzy hit an easy grounder, a
sure out, and my mother never turned her head to follow the play. She started
walking parallel to the third-base line; she passed the third-base coach; she
was still gazing into the stands when the shortstop bobbled Buzzy Thurston's
easy grounder, and the runners were safe all around. Owen was up. As a
testimony to how boring this particular game was-and how very much lost it was,
too-Mr. Chickering told Owen to swing away; Mr. Chickering wanted to go home,
too. Usually, he said, "Have a good eye, Owen!" That meant, Walk!
That meant, Don't lift the bat off your shoulders. That meant, Don't swing at
anything. But this day, Mr. Chickering said, "Hit away, kid!"
    "Knock the cover off the ball, Meany!" someone on the
bench said; then he fell off the bench, laughing. Owen, with dignity, stared at
the pitcher.
    "Give it a ride, Owen!" I called.
    "Swing away, Owen!" said Mr. Chickering. "Swing
away!"
    The Foui Ball   Now the
guys on our bench got into it; it was time to go home. Let