The rest of the school year went by quickly and since we were too young for summer jobs, the four of us signed up for the HSS Catholic Youth Organization's softball team. None of us had ever played before, but since our numbers were needed to complete a roster, we made the team. The coach was the father of one of the eighth graders. The assistant coach was going to be Father O'Conner. We were finally free for the summer, and although we had no way of knowing at the time, it would be the last summer free from boy-girl relationship drama.
We had a week of disorganized practice after school before summer break at a field that was only one block from Gabe's house. Coach Johnson had to be a pretty patient man, because in addition to being ignorant of the rules of the game, none of us knew how to catch or hit the ball. The entire week was spent practicing those two basic skills. I made Gabe promise not to come to our practices that week, as it would have been way too embarrassing. I hated it when Fr. O'Conner came to practice, as he would stand too close behind me, ostensibly to teach me how to swing the bat. When we could finally hit the ball occasionally, the worst girls were banished to the outfield. I wound up alternating between first base and pitching. My specialty became hitting, probably because I kept my eye on the ball and wasn't afraid to swing hard. Most games came down to how many home runs I could hit. Coach Johnson was so tickled that he used to pay me twenty-five cents for every homer, as long as I didn't tell anybody.
Fortunately, most of the other CYO teams sucked as badly as we did. Our coach was hoping that we would continue to play for the following two years and become more of a league threat. I let Gabe come to our first game, which was against St. Brigette's. Our outfielders were nearly useless as they would trip and fall over backwards whenever they attempted to catch the occasional fly ball. I was getting a workout at first base due to the erratic arms of my teammates. I could see Gabe in the bleachers trying not to laugh at the ridiculous postures that we adopted when throwing the ball. He stopped laughing when I hit a total of five home runs during the game, and we managed to outlast St. Brigette's by a score of 12-9. I made $1.25 for my morning's work.
The news of our initial victory and my ability to actually make contact with the ball had travelled. At our next game, there were a few more spectator-parents, and Gabe dragged Michael to come watch. Our next opponent was the Sts. Philip and James team, which was stronger because it had older, more experienced girls. Coach told us that they would be hard to beat and that we should just concentrate on playing our best. The other team actually knew how to work together as a unit, and constantly communicated with each other. It was the first time I'd been up against a team that heckled and yelled at me when I settled into the batter's box. I just thought they were being mean, and turned my head to look questioningly at our coach.
That was my first mistake, as their pitcher delivered the ball across the plate while I was looking at coach. It was called a strike, and as a result, the other team's players all started laughing and hooting at my inattention. I was embarrassed, but then I got angry at their practiced abuse and settled down to business. Our first two girls had walked, so there were two on base. I watched the next two pitches carefully and didn't swing. They were balls. Their pitcher didn't like that I could apparently gauge the difference between a ball or a strike. Gabe and Michael clapped and cheered their support. She threw a good pitch that I learned later was called a 'sinker'. I swung at it and missed. The count was 3 and 2. The next pitch was low, but still in the strike zone, which was my favorite kind to hit, as I could get under it and swing on an upward curve so that it would go high into the outfield. And it did.
Both of my teammates and I reached home, so we were scoring well, but we couldn't quite overcome the other team's experience level, and wound up with a 9-9 tie game. Sometime during the last inning, Father O'Conner had arrived to catch the end of the game. I was too busy to see him, and when we gathered around our post-game drinks, he walked over to congratulate us. Excited over how well we'd played, he grabbed me in a bear hug, lifting me off the ground. I didn't like how it felt. He stood around talking to all of us, but his hand kept coming around my waist whenever he expressed some sort of praise for things I'd done during the game. It was entirely too familiar, and after whatever had happened with Gabe, I definitely didn't want him touching me. I walked over to the trash can, threw my cup away and headed over to the bleacher seats. I felt more protected with Michael there. He apparently knew nothing of the incident with Gabe, so his face didn't react to my internal discomfort. Actually, he smiled and drilled my heart with those eyes of his until I had to look away. Gabe's face struggled to control his expression.
"Congratulations on being accepted at St. Ignatius, Michael! What're you going to do with yourself this summer?" I asked.
"Thanks. I'm working as a counselor for the day campers at St. Vincent's for the first session. Then I'll work the overnight camping programs for the rest of the summer until school starts."
My stomach tightened at the thought of Michael basically being gone forever from my everyday world in just a few weeks. I wouldn't feel as safe at the ball games once he left, but for the rest of our short season, I noted that Gabe was at every game, whether I asked him to come or not.