[We join the action mid-novel, as protagonist Louis Meneses coaches the season-opening doubleheader of Tran’s Souperstars, the misfit Little League team of his son Gunther, whom he only recently met.]

 

Top of the first: three up, three down. Not a ping of contact. Mason disposed of opposing batters with an indifferent, cold precision, tightening their sphincters with inside-corner heat before buckling their knees with rainbow curves. They shuffled back to the bench with bowed heads, quiet curses floating on their bubble-gum breath. Lito caught with gusto, holding the pitches an extra beat to emphasize their pristine placement, bobbing his head in approval.

At the half-inning mark, the umpire removed his face mask and waddled toward the third-base bench. His pale fleshy face had been pressed red by the dense rubber of the mask. He pointed a fat finger at Louis.

“I told your catcher if he doesn’t stop running his mouth at me and the batters, I’m gonna throw him out. He’s lucky I haven’t already.” Without waiting for a response, he pivoted and returned to his post, his high ass tight against his polyester pants like a shrink-wrapped ham.

“Lito, keep your mouth shut back there,” said Louis.

“I’m a competitor.”

“Compete with your mouth shut.”

“What if I can’t breathe through my nose?”

Louis put Apollo Jackson, the team’s fastest player, in the leadoff spot. Wearing a dusty helmet over his mini-fro, Apollo hammered the knob of the bat into the dirt, releasing the baseball doughnut he’d put on the barrel for his practice swings. He slapped his helmet, lifted his chin, and headed for the batter’s box.

“Apollo Jackson makes his way to the plate. He’ll be the Souperstars’ first batter of the season.” The fake-deep voice, a child’s approximation of a play-by-play announcer’s, seemed to beam down from the heavens. It jumped half an octave for the color commentary. “It’s showtime at the Apollo, Jim, but this one isn’t just for the blacks.”

Louis sighed.

“That’s racist, Frank.” Replied the deep voice, “Jackson is known for his speed on the basepaths and for smelling like farts.”

Louis followed the laughing eyes of his charges to the top of the dugout fence, where Ronald Knabe sat, his cleats pressed into the chain-link as he blew fart sounds against his hands.

“Souperstars skipper Louis Meneses appears concerned.”

“Ronald. Down.”

“I’m in the booth, Coach.”

“You’re on the fence. Down.”

The umpire watched from the batter’s box, hands on his hips, refusing to start the game.

It was a dramatic descent, according to Ronald’s third-person narration. “Knabe is poised to set foot in the dugout. One small step for Ronald Knabe, one giant leap for Tran’s Souperstars.”

He landed on the concrete, releasing a plume of dust and raising his arms like a gymnast who’d just stuck a landing. “Play ball!” he shouted. The Souperstars cheered.

Apollo grounded out weakly to the pitcher. Ronald called the play from the bench.

*

The Souperstars won Game One with ease, 7–0. Mason went the full six innings and was nearly perfect, allowing only three base runners—one single, one error, and one walk. He and Lito knocked in five of the seven runs.

Game Two followed essentially the same script for four innings. At that point, Lito, now pitching, decided that the other team’s slugger—a sturdy first baseman who, like Barry Bonds, wore a large protective arm brace—had camped himself too close to the inside corner. A high-and-tight fastball failed to back the boy off. A second pitch in the same spot earned Lito a warning from the same umpire who had nearly thrown him out of the last game. The third pitch plunked the boy in the shoulder, just above the brace. The ump tossed Lito, who responded with a middle finger on his way to the bench. Relief pitcher Jonathan Nak presented little trouble for Sally’s Subs’ Submarines, who used a late rally to sink the Souperstars 6–4.

Louis had chosen to overlook or only lightly scold the boys’ foul language and offensive jokes, but he decided that the deliberate plunking of an opposing batter required a more pointed intervention. He would draw the line at physical attacks.

After the game, he gathered the team for a chat and told them to “take a knee.” They sucked on orange slices provided by Pho Tran, holding them against their teeth like oversize mouth guards.

“There will be no throwing at batters,” Louis declared.

Lito spit out his slice. “He was standing on the plate! How are we supposed to pitch if you won’t let us throw inside?”

“I didn’t say you can’t throw inside.”

“That’s what I was doing.”

“You beaned him.”

“He was standing on the plate.”

Louis realized the circularity of this debate and its adverse effect on his authority.

“Look, you can pitch to the inside corner. That’s part of the plate. And if some batter’s hanging over that, well, he’ll have to figure it out.”

“What if we need to go further inside?” asked Lito.

“You shouldn’t need to,” said Louis.

“Yes, we should,” replied Lito. “Right, Mason?”

“You gotta move their eyes around,” added Mason. “High, low. Inside, outside. The occasional ball is necessary.”

“Okay, good point.”

“See,” said Lito. “When the white kid tells you, you listen.”

Louis sighed. “He gave me a reason. Look, just don’t bean anybody.”

“How good do you expect our control to be?” asked Lito. “This is Little League.”

“Either you’ve got the control to paint corners and change eye levels or you don’t. You can’t have it both ways.”

“You trying to kill our aspirations, Coach?”

“Alright,” said Louis. He took a knee in front of the players and beckoned them closer. Jim knelt beside Louis, deferentially awaiting the head honcho’s wisdom. Louis dropped his voice to a near-whisper.

“This information is team-only. We can’t have anyone stealing signs. Loose lips sink ships. Understood?”

The boys murmured their assent through orange slices.

Louis continued. “From now on—”

“Just the Souperstars,” added Jim.

“Yes,” confirmed Louis. “Just the Souperstars. From now on, if it’s going to be close, look to me. I’ll know what’s going on. If I pat my left shoulder with my right hand three times”—he demonstrated the gesture—“that means it’s a go. But don’t go higher than the letters. Got it?”

The Souperstars just nodded, doe-eyed rindsuckers, junior bombardiers.

 

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