A Quality of Light by Richard Wagamese Read Free Book Online

simply shrugged at each other as we traded gloves at the end of each turn at bat. The slow trots into right field were filled with the desire for any and all balls to avoid my area. Looking away across the sweep of country over Otter Creek behind the school, I could see the new lush green of pastureland, edged in ragged browns of tree-line, the silvery pencil nubs of silos and the gabled edges of barns and outbuildings. Right then I knew I would feel far more comfortable and capable among them than on that playing field.
    But Victor Ringle laid into a pitch and the smack of contact woke me from my reverie. The ball landed twenty feet in front of me and began rolling speedily towards me. I ran in awkwardly andbent to pick it up. Somehow it missed my outstretched glove and rolled between my legs to the shrill cheer of Victor’s teammates and the dirge-like moan of my own. I pumped my legs crazily to catch up with that rolling ball, which stopped, finally, against the fence at the edge of the Kuntzes’ forty acres of alfalfa. I turned to throw but the ball landed fifteen feet in front of an exasperated Lenny Weber at centerfield. “Way to go, Spaz!” he snarled and heaved a hard rope of a throw into Gerhard Metzger at second base. I saw him shrug and shake his head sadly in Ralphie’s direction. “Spaz!” was Ralphie’s echoing cry.
    When Allie Conroy dribbled out to the pitcher, John stepped up to the plate. From where I stood he looked as frail as wheat in a windstorm. The bat, an inconsistent thing, lay limply on his right shoulder. On three consecutive pitches he swung mightily, twisting his back into it and missing by miles. I could hear the hooting and the hollering from my teammates and see the frown of displeasure on Ralphie’s face on the sidelines. “Spaz,” I saw him mouth slowly, silently, right into John’s face. For an instant, John paused with the bat in his hands and half turned towards the smirking bulk of Ralphie. But the moment passed and he moved away.
    “Thought you were gonna hit him,” I said as I gave him my glove.
    “Mighta,” he said curtly and jogged away.
    I might have too after my debacle. Determined to avoid falling down or throwing the bat, I swung timidly at three pitches. Each time Ralphie hooted away from shortstop, alluding to my girlish demeanor, my rubber arms and how my mother could probably do a better job of baseball, army boots and all. I hated baseball.
    “Jocks!” John said to me on our way into the school when the bell rang. “Can’t stand ’em.”
    “Jocks?” I said.
    He looked at me with his head cocked. “Yeah. Jocks. As in
jock
-strap? Athletes? Big dopey meat-head morons with muscles? Like
him!”
he said, hooking a thumb towards Ralphie, who was carrying the equipment bag over his shoulder like a hunter slinging a carcass. “They don’t use that word around here?”
    “Not that I ever heard. At least until now. But you’re right. Heis a big dopey meat-head moron with muscles!” I said villainously, enjoying my shared venture into spitefulness. We laughed.
    “I hate baseball,” John said. “It’s dumb.”
    “Yeah. Kind of a waste of good farmland,” I said and we laughed again.
    “Hey, the girls have got the giggles!” Ralphie said, giving Lenny a nudge in the ribs. “Dress like retards, play like retards,” he said with a hiss and disappeared into the school. Lenny looked over his shoulder at us with a look that was equal parts pity and relief. Then he shrugged and followed Ralphie into the building.
    “Dipshits,” John said, shaking his head.
    “Huh?”
    He laughed, and the blue eyes sparkled for the first time. “Kane,” he said, punching me lightly on the shoulder, “we got a long way to go with you. A
lo-o-ong
way!”

    I have always loved the spring. The farmer in me thrills to the knowledge that growth becomes possible again, that life returns in all its various forms, that my hand can guide and direct a portion of it, and the