With the Might of Angels by Andrea Davis Pinkney Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrea Davis Pinkney
volunteering him.
“Goober can set up,” she said, and she started helping Goober make bases from whatever was nearby.
Together Mama and Goober drove the nose of a pop bottle into the dirt to mark first base. Second base was a box top. Third, a snatch of tire rubber. Home plate was a sock Goober had found and stuffed with newspaper. This seemed to satisfy Goober’s wanting to be on the Shepherd’s Way team.
Mama, Daddy, Goober, the Reverend, and a whole mess of people from Shepherd’s Way pulled their picnic blankets closer to the game. Yolanda was there, too. “Make it happen, Dawnie!” she shouted. “Show ‘em you mean business, girl!”
The Calvary team was up first. That Lonnie kid, he sure knew his way around swinging a bat. He met Freddy’s fastest pitch with a mean
crrrrack,
giving me some play way out in the pasture. I scooped the ball, hurled it. But by the time Roger stumbled over his feet, Lonniewas home free — and home-run happy.
When it was our turn up, Freddy let me bat first. Lonnie was pitching.
“Bring it home, Dawnie!” Daddy shouted. “Don’t just swing. Use your noggin. Think, child.
Meet
the ball.”
“Home, Dawnie!” Goober cheered.
I had a good grip on the bat. Hiked it high over my shoulder. I was ready. Feeling confident. Feeling fine.
When I surveyed the pasture, there was rattling coming from the fence. All three Hatches had shown up, and were watching from the spot closest to Ivoryton, where the fence separates Orem’s Pasture from the road. They didn’t dare pipe up or misbehave. There were only three of them, but lots more of us, including grown-ups. Just having the Hatches around bothered me, though. I tried my best to ignore them, but it was hard doin’.
It helped having Daddy coaching me from the sidelines.
“Chin up, Dawnie!”
Lonnie slammed in a pitch. Man sakes — there was fire on the stitches of his ball!
“Strike one!”
Lonnie craned his knee high up, brought the ball back —
flam!
That pitch was hotter than the last. It could have melted the fenders on Reverend Collier’s Pontiac.
The two words every batter hates shot up from behind me: “Strike two!”
I released my bat for a moment. Did the thing that riles Mama most — spit in both my palms. “Choke the bat!” Daddy coached. “Choke it, Dawnie!”
Lonnie’s teammates cheered him. “Put it down the middle, Lonnie-man! Show her this ain’t no place for a girl.”
Lonnie bombed me with his pitch. As slammin’ as it was, I never lost sight of its power. I didn’t hit the ball, I
laced
it — high and far, all the way to St. Peter’s post at the pearly gates.
I put some smooth peanut butter on that jelly doughnut.
Flung my bat, and breaknecked like heck toward the pop bottle in the dirt — to first base.
It sure helps being big-legged. A box top never looked as good as when I was landing on its second-base square.
Soon that rubber tire patch was calling my name — third base!
Now
I
was bombing forward, blowing through puffed cheeks, working my way to the stuffed sock, to home base. My ball had soared so far and high that it took the Calvarys a good two minutes to get it back. Still, every baseball player knows you’re not safe till you hear the ump make the call.
As I watched that stuffed sock get closer, I could hear Lonnie hollering to his outfielders, “Get the ball. She’s near to home!”
Daddy must have kept Mama from fainting at what came next. I didn’t just
slide
into home base, I
sliiiiiid
on my belly, mopping the land with the front of my shirt.
I’m not one for eating dirt, but dirt from
sliiiiiiding
into home base tastes sweeter than brown sugar. Never mind that it stung my eyes. I was nose-to-the-ground, smelling that musty sock, smelling home.
“Safe!” came the call.
I got to my feet, danced a happy kick-step. Brushed the brown sugar from my front.
Our game continued through the afternoon. I hit a double and two more homers.
Shepherd’s Way beat
“Goober can set up,” she said, and she started helping Goober make bases from whatever was nearby.
Together Mama and Goober drove the nose of a pop bottle into the dirt to mark first base. Second base was a box top. Third, a snatch of tire rubber. Home plate was a sock Goober had found and stuffed with newspaper. This seemed to satisfy Goober’s wanting to be on the Shepherd’s Way team.
Mama, Daddy, Goober, the Reverend, and a whole mess of people from Shepherd’s Way pulled their picnic blankets closer to the game. Yolanda was there, too. “Make it happen, Dawnie!” she shouted. “Show ‘em you mean business, girl!”
The Calvary team was up first. That Lonnie kid, he sure knew his way around swinging a bat. He met Freddy’s fastest pitch with a mean
crrrrack,
giving me some play way out in the pasture. I scooped the ball, hurled it. But by the time Roger stumbled over his feet, Lonniewas home free — and home-run happy.
When it was our turn up, Freddy let me bat first. Lonnie was pitching.
“Bring it home, Dawnie!” Daddy shouted. “Don’t just swing. Use your noggin. Think, child.
Meet
the ball.”
“Home, Dawnie!” Goober cheered.
I had a good grip on the bat. Hiked it high over my shoulder. I was ready. Feeling confident. Feeling fine.
When I surveyed the pasture, there was rattling coming from the fence. All three Hatches had shown up, and were watching from the spot closest to Ivoryton, where the fence separates Orem’s Pasture from the road. They didn’t dare pipe up or misbehave. There were only three of them, but lots more of us, including grown-ups. Just having the Hatches around bothered me, though. I tried my best to ignore them, but it was hard doin’.
It helped having Daddy coaching me from the sidelines.
“Chin up, Dawnie!”
Lonnie slammed in a pitch. Man sakes — there was fire on the stitches of his ball!
“Strike one!”
Lonnie craned his knee high up, brought the ball back —
flam!
That pitch was hotter than the last. It could have melted the fenders on Reverend Collier’s Pontiac.
The two words every batter hates shot up from behind me: “Strike two!”
I released my bat for a moment. Did the thing that riles Mama most — spit in both my palms. “Choke the bat!” Daddy coached. “Choke it, Dawnie!”
Lonnie’s teammates cheered him. “Put it down the middle, Lonnie-man! Show her this ain’t no place for a girl.”
Lonnie bombed me with his pitch. As slammin’ as it was, I never lost sight of its power. I didn’t hit the ball, I
laced
it — high and far, all the way to St. Peter’s post at the pearly gates.
I put some smooth peanut butter on that jelly doughnut.
Flung my bat, and breaknecked like heck toward the pop bottle in the dirt — to first base.
It sure helps being big-legged. A box top never looked as good as when I was landing on its second-base square.
Soon that rubber tire patch was calling my name — third base!
Now
I
was bombing forward, blowing through puffed cheeks, working my way to the stuffed sock, to home base. My ball had soared so far and high that it took the Calvarys a good two minutes to get it back. Still, every baseball player knows you’re not safe till you hear the ump make the call.
As I watched that stuffed sock get closer, I could hear Lonnie hollering to his outfielders, “Get the ball. She’s near to home!”
Daddy must have kept Mama from fainting at what came next. I didn’t just
slide
into home base, I
sliiiiiid
on my belly, mopping the land with the front of my shirt.
I’m not one for eating dirt, but dirt from
sliiiiiiding
into home base tastes sweeter than brown sugar. Never mind that it stung my eyes. I was nose-to-the-ground, smelling that musty sock, smelling home.
“Safe!” came the call.
I got to my feet, danced a happy kick-step. Brushed the brown sugar from my front.
Our game continued through the afternoon. I hit a double and two more homers.
Shepherd’s Way beat