Nine-year-old Trey's lonely, sad life as a fatherless misfit is changed forever when the new preacher's kid, the indomitable Charley, arrives. Everyone around Charley sees him as tragically handicapped. Not so Charley himself, who lives life to the...
Life slowly settled into place in the wake of all that tragic drama. The following spring a church group asked Reverend Bob to organize a youth baseball program for the Valley. At first it was hard to gather people but it came together in time, especially as a welcome respite from farm routines. Because of my perceived math skills I was put to keeping the scorecard. I agreed only if Charley would sit next to me to make sure I was seeing the play right.
On a Monday evening, the last day of June 1969, we were rising tenth-graders. I was scoring a home game at the field behind the village school when a shout came from my left, "Heads up, guys!" just as I heard the crack of the bat. I looked up from the score sheet and the ball glanced off my forehead. I didn't think it had hit all that hard but I did see stars.
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Charley exclaimed, "Cheez, Trey, are you all right?"
"Yeah," I said. The stars passed almost as quickly as they came and I decided not to mention them. "It just grazed me."
Mr. Bob asked, "Are you sure, Trey?"
"Yes, sir," I replied. "Can we get on with the game?" As always, I hated being the center of attention.
When Mom saw me after Mr. Bob dropped me off she said, "Trey, your eyes look bloodshot. Maybe you shouldn't be scoring."
"Aw, Mom," I objected.
She interrupted, "And where did you get that bruise on your forehead?" I had not seen myself in a mirror. I had hoped there was nothing there that she would notice.
"Foul ball, Mom. It just grazed me, nothin' much. Got a headache, though. Think I'll go to bed."
"All right. Take a couple of aspirin. If I've gone to work before you get up, call me and tell me how you are."
"OK, Mom." I bent down and kissed her on the cheek and went upstairs. Paul's typewriter was going. I called through the door as I did every night, "G'night, Paul." The typewriter stopped for a second as he called back, "G'night, Trey." I went through the bedtime routine and called down the stairs, "Ready, Mom." Sometimes I had to wonder if I wasn't getting a little old for this nightly tuck-in, but in truth it comforted me, especially at the end of difficult days.
"How's your head?" Mom asked.
"Not bad, Mom. The headache's just there, not bad."
"All the same I want to check your pupils. I'm concerned about concussion."
"Aw, Mom, it didn't hit me that hard." I hated dealing with the glare that came with any inspection of my eyes, but Mom had her penlight at the ready. She wouldn't be put off.
"Open wide and hold still," she commanded. She flicked the beam a couple of times in each eye, then had me follow it with my eyes, left, right, up and down. "Well, it looks like there's no brain damage, anyhow. I still don't like this bloodshot business. Tomorrow maybe we need to sit down and talk eyestrain."
