These Marigolds Grow Too High, Chapter 20

There's a batch of new folks finding their way to this blog. I'd like to remind those folks to start These Marigolds Grow Too Tall at the start. It's the third Fintan O'Keefe story. The first two are available at  www.lulu.com  entitled Spineless (first) and Cancer in the Family.

20

Michael was pacing behind the ancient wood and steel bleachers on the first base side of a dusty diamond in Waltham. He was antsy were I even a little late. First pitch was five minutes away: I was more than a little late.

“Miran, chicos. Miran…” Fidel Arrojo addressed the team. “…el maestro esta aqui.”

He removed his cap, spread his arms wide, and bowed in my direction eliciting a mock cheer from the guys on the bench. Slipping my Adidas sandals off and my coach’s shoes on, I thanked them in two languages. I trotted out to my spot and started flashing the tools of the third base coach’s trade, a jumble of mostly meaningless words and gestures. Later in the game in certain combinations they might mean something, even produce something significant. In the first inning with no one on base, however, they were exercise.

Arrojo doubled to right center after two were out and died there as Gustavo Gutierrez took a called third strike. Bat still on his shoulder, he glared at the umpire as he slowly crossed the plate returning to the bench. I nudged him along.

“Nice wide plate tonight, huh, Ben?”

“Just like always, Finn.”

“Right. OK. Have a good game.”

And it was. Ben Salerno wanted teams to win or lose with their bats and their gloves. His games were generally quick and efficient. Tonight was no exception. Except for Gutierrez who argued always, with everybody, about everything and to no avail, no one had any complaints.

We scored two in the fourth, two more in the sixth and held off their last inning rally to take it 4-2. Waltham left the tying run at second.

What turned out to be our insurance run scored on a suicide squeeze, a baseball term the same in Spanish as it is in English. I hear it’s the same in Japanese. Michael loved the suicide squeeze.

“Michael, can you come by tonight?”

“Aye and to hear your New York stories, then?”

“Yeah, New York stories.”