Dirty Rice by Gerald Duff Page B

new ones a little different trying out with the Rice Birds this year. One of them is from Cuba, trying to be a shortstop. He’s standing over yonder in the back, and he’s named Michael Gonzales. Goes by Mike.” Most everybody turned to look at where Dutch was pointing.
    I’d noticed him during the second lap I’d run around the perimeter of the baseball field inside Addison Stadium, not only by the difference in skin color between him and the white players I was in the middle of, but by the smooth loose way he moved as he worked on his laps that morning. It was more of a glide than a running gait he was setting, and he was breathing a lot better than the rest of them.
    When Dutch pointed him out to the Rayne Rice Birds, he raised his hand like he was waving to somebody. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t smile like people will generally do when they’re singled out in a crowd for folks to know who they are.
    â€œI didn’t know Mike was a Mexican name,” one of the jokers in the bunch said.
    â€œHe ain’t Mexican, Eldridge,” Dutch said. “I said he was Cuban, from Cuba that means. That’s different, see. Ain’t that right, Mike?”
    The ones still looking at Mike Gonzales could see him nod and smile a little this time, and I knew why he was adding that smile now when his name was said out loud. It will not pay to look to the white eyes like you’re going to be permanently sulled up. Not if you need something from them.
    â€œThe other one of these two new ones,” Dutch Bernson said, “that I been mentioning is standing right next to Clauson Vines. He ain’t from Cuba, no matter how much he might look like he is. His name is Gemar Batiste, and he says he’s a pitcher, but I ain’t seen him throw a ball yet. We’ll find out about that, I reckon, soon enough.”
    â€œI seen him hit, though,” Dynamite Dunn said in a low voice.
    â€œGemar Batiste is an Alabama Indian from Texas,” Dutch Bernson said and pointed in my direction. “That’s what he claims. Ain’t it, Gemar?” I nodded and lifted my hand the way I’d just seen Mike Gonzales do it.
    After a few more words, Dutch broke us up into the groups he wanted, and as folks started walking off in their separate directions to clear the field for a session of batting practice, he called me over to him.
    â€œI’m thinking I want you to throw batting practice this morning to a few of these folks,” he said. “Can you get the ball over the plate so they can hit it?”
    â€œMost of the time I can put it where I want to,” I said, “but most of the time I don’t want to do that. Fix it so they can hit it, I mean.”
    Dutch cocked his head and gave me a look. “I know what you’re saying, and I got a plan, see. I want to let these boys hit the ball, like you do in practice, you know. I can still get the ball over the plate, but with nothing on it no more. That’s perfect for letting these boys get their eye back and their timing in gear and up to snuff. So that’s part of what I’m talking about. Get my drift?”
    I nodded and waited for him to go on. I figured he wanted more from me than just serving up balls for batting practice. Lots of folks can get the ball over the plate. That ain’t pitching.
    â€œSo just put the ball over the plate easy, nothing on it, now, to these boys,” Dutch said, “but be listening to me. After you get your arm warmed up, I’m going to have you do some real pitching to some of these galoots who’re supposed to be hitters. When I say the word Alabama, I want you to throw real pitches. Get what I mean? It’ll let me see if what you’re claiming to have you do have or not.”
    â€œBut they ain’t going to be expecting that, these batters,” I said. “They’ll be thinking I’m going to keep on coming in with practice