shoulder (âLIKE A GUN!!â âCoach Noah), step forward, and hurl the orb towards Grady, who had just arrived on the base to claim his stand-up single. Twenty years later, during his first flirtations with Eastern philosophy at a third-tier state university, he would write it all up as karma, but for this moment he knew to do just like his mother said.
Coach Noah was planted in the outfield wearing his matching Juice Boxes cap and Juice Boxes sweatshirt, amongst his Juice Boxes players. He stretched his arms above the mostly crabgrassed field and spread his fingers wide. Out here, where the Juice Boxes outfielders couldnât see the drama playing out beyond the pale dirt boundary between them and the base paths, Coach Noahâs players took this motion as his signal for them to lock their ankles into their shoes right where they stood.
âREADY, COACH!!!â The little voices dogpiled on top of another to form one big booming voice in this, his one measurable achievement after many many weeks of Saturday morning practices where, after usually showing up 20 minutes late (and, occasionally, more than a little hung over), Coach Noah drilled them to take their defensive positions and exclaim the prescribed exclamation. A brief, unfamiliar wash of shame overcame him.
âNo, no. I just mean stay here.â
Coach Noah trotted towards 1 st base, where by this time Gradyâs mother had already forklifted her son out of the chalk-dirt sift and up into her arms, the lip of her workout pants straining to hide the fact that she was (still) wearing the fuschia thong her Secret Someone had given to her earlier in the week with the implicit instructions not to launder them until such time as they saw each other again later in the week. Gradyâs crying deepened in pitch when his mother slung him into her chest. She adjusted his weight by jerking his body between her biceps and forearms.
âIs he okay?â Coach Noah acted legitimately concerned. âIs he hurt?â (Coach Noah only ever saw Grady on game days and had no idea the kid couldnât register pain because he was always asleep by the time Coach Noach drifted through his parentsâ house like a thin breeze, Gradyâs father slouched into his overstuffed leather recliner in the basement, TiVO shifting gears between Law and Order Criminal Intent, House M.D . and Law and Order Special Victims Unit ). Gradyâs mother shot Coach Noah a quick glance as he stood in front of her, trying to come across as Genuinely For Real Concerned.
He repeated himself. She repeated her glance and then looked past him towards the chalk circle where the on-deckers were still spinny-dizzy, oblivious at first to all the Grady Drama, but before too long the bouncing orange mass with way too many arms and legs hanging off it at grotesque angles came clearer and clearer into focus, trundling directly at the ondeckers with enough speed and inertia that they couldnât have gotten out of its path even had they been paying attention from the first fat plop of the ball against Gradyâs nose. The clashing sound the chain-links made against their own fence posts sounded far more like the great smashing of a giant sheet of glass as the orange mass piled through, arms, legs, hats, cleats, aluminum and underwear all gnarled into the most twisted twist of metal, flesh and polyester that rivaled some of the worst waking images among the thin contingency of war vets sprinkled among the onlooking audience.
It was the untanglement of all the above that resulted in the net 65% loss in Gradyâs vision (over the coming weeks) and 100% unraveling of Coach Noahâs years-on-thin-ice marriage (even faster, remarkably) to someone named Becky, Beth, Jen, Karen, or some other name dominated by a soft-E vowel. No one in attendance would ever understand why Gradyâs mother blamed the Grady Drama on Coach Noah at all, let alone so immediate and loud. Not even
Coach Noah was planted in the outfield wearing his matching Juice Boxes cap and Juice Boxes sweatshirt, amongst his Juice Boxes players. He stretched his arms above the mostly crabgrassed field and spread his fingers wide. Out here, where the Juice Boxes outfielders couldnât see the drama playing out beyond the pale dirt boundary between them and the base paths, Coach Noahâs players took this motion as his signal for them to lock their ankles into their shoes right where they stood.
âREADY, COACH!!!â The little voices dogpiled on top of another to form one big booming voice in this, his one measurable achievement after many many weeks of Saturday morning practices where, after usually showing up 20 minutes late (and, occasionally, more than a little hung over), Coach Noah drilled them to take their defensive positions and exclaim the prescribed exclamation. A brief, unfamiliar wash of shame overcame him.
âNo, no. I just mean stay here.â
Coach Noah trotted towards 1 st base, where by this time Gradyâs mother had already forklifted her son out of the chalk-dirt sift and up into her arms, the lip of her workout pants straining to hide the fact that she was (still) wearing the fuschia thong her Secret Someone had given to her earlier in the week with the implicit instructions not to launder them until such time as they saw each other again later in the week. Gradyâs crying deepened in pitch when his mother slung him into her chest. She adjusted his weight by jerking his body between her biceps and forearms.
âIs he okay?â Coach Noah acted legitimately concerned. âIs he hurt?â (Coach Noah only ever saw Grady on game days and had no idea the kid couldnât register pain because he was always asleep by the time Coach Noach drifted through his parentsâ house like a thin breeze, Gradyâs father slouched into his overstuffed leather recliner in the basement, TiVO shifting gears between Law and Order Criminal Intent, House M.D . and Law and Order Special Victims Unit ). Gradyâs mother shot Coach Noah a quick glance as he stood in front of her, trying to come across as Genuinely For Real Concerned.
He repeated himself. She repeated her glance and then looked past him towards the chalk circle where the on-deckers were still spinny-dizzy, oblivious at first to all the Grady Drama, but before too long the bouncing orange mass with way too many arms and legs hanging off it at grotesque angles came clearer and clearer into focus, trundling directly at the ondeckers with enough speed and inertia that they couldnât have gotten out of its path even had they been paying attention from the first fat plop of the ball against Gradyâs nose. The clashing sound the chain-links made against their own fence posts sounded far more like the great smashing of a giant sheet of glass as the orange mass piled through, arms, legs, hats, cleats, aluminum and underwear all gnarled into the most twisted twist of metal, flesh and polyester that rivaled some of the worst waking images among the thin contingency of war vets sprinkled among the onlooking audience.
It was the untanglement of all the above that resulted in the net 65% loss in Gradyâs vision (over the coming weeks) and 100% unraveling of Coach Noahâs years-on-thin-ice marriage (even faster, remarkably) to someone named Becky, Beth, Jen, Karen, or some other name dominated by a soft-E vowel. No one in attendance would ever understand why Gradyâs mother blamed the Grady Drama on Coach Noah at all, let alone so immediate and loud. Not even
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