Marriage On His Mind

“Strike two!”

He’d missed the ball by a mile, she thought, frustrated. She’d seen such potential in him. A few weeks ago he’d been raw—the rookie of all rookies, doing everything wrong. But he’d obviously been working hard in the interim. That pickup he’d made in the field last inning proved he was keeping his eye on the ball more. Now if he would just focus as hard on the one being pitched to him.

Crack!

Mickey sprang up. He’d hit it! He’d actually hit the darn thing!

The ball caromed off an invisible divot in the field and angled past the center fielder’s legs.

“Crank it up, Ponytail. Take second,” she hollered as he hit first at full stride. She watched approvingly as he made a wide swing and pumped toward second. The outfielder snagged the errant ball, then fired it to the infield.

“Slide! Slide!” Mickey screamed, crouching, her arms extended in front of her as if she were on the field coaching him.

An explosion of dirt rocketed above the heads of the players near second. When the dust cleared, Ponytail lay stretched along the base line spitting dirt, his fingers digging into the base.

“Out!” the umpire shouted.

The call brought raucous cheers from the opposing team and supporters, and cries of outrage from those who thought “Blue” needed glasses. The man sprawled in the settling dust dragged himself to his knees, then uncurled slowly upward, wobbling a bit before taking a step. He brushed off his hands, Chung Li’s Pizza T-shirt and filthy jeans as he started a slow jog to the dugout.

“Hey, Ponytail! Real men slide feet first!”

Silence descended. She’d gone too far this time. She hadn’t only maligned his athletic ability but his masculinity, as well. Holding her breath, Mickey watched as he stopped, swept off his cap to whack dust against his leg, then pinned her to the bench with his direct look, his chest heaving from the exertion of the run. He changed direction and headed straight toward her, not stopping until he stood at the base of the stands, ten feet from where she sat.

“Why?” he queried, panting.

Mickey gulped, grateful she could read the single word on his lips, because the sound was swallowed up by her thundering pulse. “Why what?”

“Why should I slide feet first?”

The question penetrated the rhythm section in her head, and she straightened a little in relief. She’d been afraid he was asking why she was picking on him, and she didn’t have an answer to that, except that she admired his grit—and he seemed self-confident enough to take it. “Because you can ruin your hands going head first, either by jamming them into the base or by the baseman stepping on ’em.”

His fists propped low on his hips, the hat dangling from his little finger, he cocked his head as if considering her words. When his gaze—deep blue, she noted, a nice contrast to his ebony-colored hair—bored into hers, she tugged her cap down even farther.

“Can you teach as well as criticize?” he asked.

“What?”

“Can you teach me to slide?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I guess—”

“Monday at six o’clock, here?”

“I’m sure many of your teammates could give you the same instructions—”

“I’m asking you.”

“Play ball!” the umpire called.

“Monday at six,” he repeated, a man obviously accustomed to having orders obeyed. “Be here.”

Mickey watched him trot into the dugout, then make a comment to a teammate who laughed uproariously.

Well, she didn’t have to obey his command, she thought militantly. She hadn’t committed herself to anything. But if she didn’t show up, she couldn’t come to any more games, she argued with herself. And she wanted to keep coming. Needed to. She hadn’t felt so alive in years. Two years, to be exact.

“Hi.”

At the simple greeting, Mickey turned her head toward the young woman seated beside her. She recognized her as the one she’d spoken to the first game she’d observed, last month when she’d been in town looking for a place to rent. Always drawn to baseball games, whether professional or little league, she had found a seat and watched, then had become increasingly frustrated at the third baseman’s ineptness. She had sent him suggestions on how to improve, using the young woman as intermediary.

Mickey eyed her now, noting she wore a summer shift, as she always did, this one a tiny flowered print. Mickey returned the greeting, then asked, “Have you been sent to question my intentions?”

“How’d you guess?”

“The male ego is a fragile thing,” she said, drawing a grin and a nod from her companion.

“My name’s Stacy.”

A soft, feminine name to match her clothes and long, silky hair, Mickey thought with an inward sigh. The kind of woman every tomboy dreads. “I don’t have answers for you, Stacy.”

“Not even a name?”

“My name would mean nothing to him.”

“I see. You just dispense advice to the baseball-lorn. Sort of a Dear Yogi Berra.”

Mickey smiled. “Actually, this is the first time I’ve given advice uninvited.”

“Why won’t you at least tell us who you are?”

Because I’m trying not to lean on anyone. I need to find happiness alone, she thought. She forced herself to ignore Stacy’s friendly overture. Standing, she looked at the field briefly, then returned her gaze to the curious woman seated beside her. “Tell Ponytail—”

“His name is—”

“I don’t want to know his name. Just tell him to lose the jeans and buy some baseball pants by Monday.”

“That’s it? That’s all you could get out of her?” Jack queried Stacy, his voice rising above the din at Chung Li’s Pizza Parlor, where the team had gone after their losing effort. “Buy some baseball pants?”

“I’m not skilled at interrogation like you, Jack. She obviously doesn’t want to make friends.”

He drummed his fingers on the lacquered wood tabletop. “How old is she, can you tell?”

“Around thirty, I guess.”

“Wedding ring?”

Stacy smiled. “No-o-o.”

“She uses that baseball cap like a shield over her face.”