Mudville (27 page)

“They're replaying the whole thing on Channel 54. It's nearly done, but I'm taping it for you. I'll dump it on DVD later. You'll want this forever.” He looks tired and smells of charred hot dog. “Sorry I didn't make the party.”

“I know you had to do stuff,” I tell him. “Did you sell a lot of hot dogs?”

“Not enough to send you to St. James, but I can pay the bills this month.”

“Good enough for me,” I tell him. “Hey, how is Sturgis doing?”

“You mean he's not with you?”

“The losing pitcher doesn't usually go to the victory party,” I tell him. “I figured he was with you.”

“That's weird,” he says thoughtfully. “Hey, Shannon's parents called an hour ago. She's missing, too. You don't sup-pose they're hanging out somewhere, do you?”

“I don't know.” I think about the day Rita and Shannon came over to visit, when Sturgis wasn't home. Rita making room in Mrs. Obake's SUV so Sturgis could ride home with Shannon. Shannon near tears when Sturgis quit the team and misting up again today when she watched him pitch. Rita acting mysterious about Shannon's whereabouts after today's game.

Every one of those times, I was too preoccupied with my-self and baseball and Rita to think about an obvious alternative.

“Chicks dig scars,” I say.

“Huh?” says my dad.

“I bet they're together,” I tell him.

“Well, I guess I better go look for 'em,” my dad says. He gets up and heads for the front door.

We take a quick drive around the town. The snow fills the canals and sweeps across fields of mud that have just become stubbly with new grass. The baseball field, where there was so much noise and excitement earlier, is now a soft white blanket. The new bleachers look like they came with long white cushions.

“There's no footprints,” my dad points out.

“Well, they've been there for a while.”

He pulls over and parks. We cross the snowy field toward the dugouts. You can't see anything in the shadows, but I think I hear someone trying not to be heard.

“Sturgis!” I shout.

“Go away!” he shouts back.

I can see a white face and long hair appear on the dugout steps, but it's Shannon.

“Are you guys all right?” my dad calls.

Shannon walks over to us. She's been crying. Shannon is kind of weepy, I've decided.

“We're fine. He's just embarrassed. He gave up the winning runs, and … well, he also made the last out for them. He doesn't want to face you guys.”

“You should go talk to him,” my dad says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You're his best friend. Tell him it's no big deal.”

“I think you should go,” I tell him. “You're sort of his dad now. Anyway, you're his hero.”

“You think so?”

“Dad, he loves your cooking and laughs at your jokes. He's read all your books on home improvement. I honestly think he'd rather work for you than play baseball.”

My dad looks at the dugout, about as confident as an American League pitcher coming to the plate in a National League ballpark. Finally, he heads over to tell Sturgis that
everything is going to be all right, a smile plastered across his face.

To me, that's his defining moment.

They're in there for a long time. Shannon and I go to the other dugout so we can sit down. We sit quietly, Shannon still snuffling.

“Rita kind of likes you,” she finally says to break up the silence.

“I know,” I tell her. “I like her, too.”

That's the extent of our small talk.

At last, Dad and Sturgis come out of the visitors’ dugout, Sturgis leading the way. We go out, too, and meet them halfway.

Sturgis scowls at me and knocks my hand away when I offer it to him.

“You got a lucky hit,” he says. “Stupid left fielder should have had that.”

Then his sneer twists into a smile, and I see he's putting me on.

“Hey, they all look like line drives in the box score,” I tell him with a grin. I offer him my hand again, but instead of shaking it, he grabs it and pulls me into a clumsy hug.

“We'll see you in the truck,” my dad says. He and Shannon go back across the field, leaving Sturgis and me alone in the baseball park snow globe.

“So you and Shannon, huh?”

“She's nice,” he says. “She came and talked to me after the game. One thing led to another.”

“I've noticed that happens with girls.” Thinking about Rita makes me feel warm, even in the chilly air.

“She's made this whole thing easier, I guess,” he admits.

“Bring her to meet your dad. He won't feel so bad about you losing. He'll just brag that his boy is dating the second-hottest girl in town.”

He laughs. “Roy, my dad doesn't care about that game anymore.”

“What about you, then?” I wonder. “Why did you switch teams? I thought it was for your dad.”

“I don't know,” he says. “Peter kind of talked me into it, told me it was my duty or my fate or whatever. When you were such a jerk about it, it got easier. I wanted to show you up.”

I decide there's no point in arguing over who was a bigger jerk.

“You did show me up,” I tell him. “You only lost because of Google.” I explain how the pint-sized third baseman noticed how Sturgis was tipping his pitches. “You got solved, but it wasn't by me. I just reaped the benefits.”

“Can you fix it in time for Sutton Junior High to beat St. James Academy JV in the spring?” he asks.

“We'll work on it.”

When we get up the next morning for our first day of school, we learn that all the schools are closed in Sutton and Mound
County on account of the snow. It's national news. Nowhere in the history of the United States, not even in North Dakota or Alaska, was the first day of school ever called on account of snow before.

Sturgis and I head down to the ballpark, just on a whim. Shannon and Rita are already there, and the four of us build a snowman on the pitcher's mound, looking back over his head in anguish as an imaginary baseball flies past him.

Pretty soon we're joined by Steve, David, Kazuo, and the others. Google has never seen snow before and is beside him-self with wonder, making snow angels in the outfield. Eventually, we're joined by other people in town. Even Dad is there; he's taken the day off work.

We populate the field with snow players, re-creating the last play of the game yesterday. We load the bases and set the runners in motion. We put all the Sinister Bend defenders out on the field. Someone uses a long stick to place a snow-ball in midair a foot above the webbing of the snowman left fielder's glove. We line up snowmen along the Moundville dugout, waiting for the chance to bat.

Finally, we build the snowman batter. Rita gives the batter such a round-eyed and goofy expression that we all laugh until our stomachs hurt. Even when we're done, I still hear a kind of echo of laughter on the icy wind.

When the snow stops, the deep cold settles in, putting a frosty glaze on everything. It's like living in a freezer. The smart part of me thinks it's my imagination, while some other part of me—the part that believes in luck instead of
percentages—thinks it's Ptan Teca after all, exacting his cold revenge from the spirit world.

The thing is, if I could do it over again, I would do exactly the same thing. I don't care if there's a whole new ice age coming and Moundville is trampled to dust by woolly mammoths. I'm going to swing at that pitch
every time,
no matter what happens.

I've read on the Internet that Moundville now has the record for most consecutive days below freezing, at least outside the Arctic and Antarctic circles. So if you happen to drive by, be sure to stop at the ballpark. You can see our snowpeople, acting out the last at bat that was ever played there.

You can see it there, literally frozen in time: my own defining moment.

I want to thank all the people who helped nudge me and
Mudville
along:

My wife, Angela, for encouraging me to take this project up again, and for always being willing to read and reread pages hot off the printer (even after she'd gone to bed).

The old friends who were the least surprised to learn I'd made this dream come true, including Terry Aman, Nathan Irwin, Tony Kiendl, and Colette Lunday Brautigam.

Readers of the first few drafts, including Jim Anderson, Amanda Coppedge Bosky, Amy Brenham, Gillian Chan, Brad Cohen, Megan Meyers, Jennifer McNeil, and Giuliano Kornberg.

Batgirl, for her brilliant baseball writing, and her close personal friend, Anne Ursu, for her excellent advice and support.

Tina Wexler, for guiding me through the publishing world.

Allison Wortche and the other wonderful people at Knopf.

Lisa Elbert, for sharing her expertise of Dakota language and culture.

Noam Kritzer, whose kindness compelled me to rethink my positions on both lawyers and Yankees fans.

My favorite baseball writer, Mark Harris, who casts a shadow on every page of this novel.