The Little Team Nobody Would Take

The evening Craig walked over

It was the third Thursday in June, the last practice before the season-end game that Saturday.

One of those long June evenings in western Ohio when the light goes gold around eight and stays that way for an hour, laying across the grass like honey.

Tyler had brought his pitchers, like Bob said, and they had worked for twenty minutes along the first base line, Bob showing Tyler and Tyler showing Isaac.

Then the twelves scattered to help with the little ones, and Tyler went back to his own diamond to pick up the bases.

Bob was down on one knee by home plate. He was explaining to the little ones how Saturday would go, who would bat first and where the parents would sit.

About ten of them were gathered around him in their red shirts and caps, gloves on, the rest off chasing Stanley in the outfield.

Hazel was holding a ball out to him, because she always wanted to hand Coach Bob the ball, and he took it from her like it was the most important baseball in the state of Ohio.

The grain elevator stood up behind them, gold all down one side.

I was in my lawn chair down the first base line with my knitting in my lap. I had not knitted a row in ten minutes. I was just looking at him.

Then I looked past him, across the grass, and saw Craig walking over from the big diamond.

He was not alone. Homer was with him, holding his father’s hand, half running to keep up. Homer had his glove on, the one Bob had given him on his birthday, on the correct hand.

And under Craig’s other arm was a red T-shirt, folded, the smallest size from the box in the equipment shed.

Abel saw them first, then Flossie. I watched it go down the line of parents just the way it had the first night, only the other way.

Not a breeze this time. A stillness. Nobody said a word. A couple of the young mothers put their phones down.

Craig stopped at the end of the backstop. Bob looked up from under that faded red cap.

And for a second neither of them said anything at all, and the only sound was Stanley out in center field laughing with Caleb and Burl.

“Got room for one more?” Craig said. His voice cracked on it, the way it used to when he was thirteen.

Bob looked at Homer. Homer looked at Bob. Homer’s whole face was one big question.

“Roster says fourteen,” Bob said. “Fifteen’s a better number. Go on and get that shirt on him.”

Homer let go of Craig’s hand and ran. He ran straight into his grandpa, who caught him one-armed without even getting off his knee, and the little ones all crowded in to see who this new boy was.

Craig stood there and watched it. Then he walked the rest of the way out to home plate.

He stood over his father for a moment, and I saw his jaw working, and then he said it.

He said it out loud, right there in front of every parent and every boy on both teams.

“I was scared, Dad,” he said. “That’s the truth of it. I found you at that woodpile and I couldn’t stand the thought of it happening out here. So I took your team and I told everybody it was younger blood. That was a lie, and it wasn’t my call to make. I’m sorry.”

Bob did not stand up. He stayed on his knee, with Homer against his side, and he looked up at his son.

“I know you were scared,” he said. “I knew it in March. I’ve been scared too, son. You don’t stop being scared. You just decide what you’re going to do with the time.” He squeezed Homer. “This is what I’m doing with mine.”

Craig wiped his face with the back of his wrist. Abel looked off at the elevator. Flossie had her hand over her mouth.