Bases Loaded

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There wasn't going to be a game today. The black clouds roiling above our heads would see to that.

"I don't much think my fate in life is to be a lightning rod," Deter Monstable said.

Deter was the catcher, and at fourteen, the oldest in our group. He'd taken a growth spurt at thirteen and a half, but his clothes had not been notified.

Deter's britches' legs were about four inches too short.

Great for keeping hems dry on rainy days, but pitiful looking on the ball field. His tee shirt was so tight, it made you wonder what miraculous force held the thing together. No woman's girdle was ever so stressed. Not even my mother's.

Sooki Ledbetter was our pitcher. Even though she was a girl, Sooki hid that handicap well. She could burn pitches by faster than any boy her age. And she could skinny up a tree faster than any of us.

Lockerby Swindell and Chase Stipple played right and left outfield respectively. Lockerby was as bowlegged as the top half of the letter 'O'.

Chase had the biggest feet I'd ever seen on a kid. He was normal sized from the ankles up. He just looked like he had his, his pa's, and his grandpa's feet stuffed in the boats he called shoes.

The two made an awesome team. If a ball squirted between Lockerby's knees, Chase could stop it from where he stood.

Well, almost.

And anyway, Lockerby hadn't missed a grounder coming his way yet.

Deck Ryan guarded first base. I kept second base company, and Kirby Vatch played third.

Little Pee Wee Henderson was our water boy. Pee Wee's older brother, Dead Eye, used to be the water boy until it was discovered that Dead Eye took his nickname a bit too seriously.

The Eye was prone to place that bucket at least fifteen feet from the tree stump near home base. At a particularly nail-biting moment, say last inning, two outs, all tied, Dead Eye took that instant, when all our attention was focused on the game, to practice his spitting skills.

If distance spitting is ever an Olympic sport, Dead Eye will medal.

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