Девять рассказов

           WhenIgaveherabat,sheaskedmewhyitwassoheavy.TheChieflefthisumpire’spositionbehindthepitcherandcameforwardanxiously.HetoldMaryHudsontoresttheendofherbatonherrightshouder."Iam,"shesaid.Hetoldhernottochokethebattootightly."I’mnot,"shesaid.Hetoldhertokeephereyerightontheball."Iwill,"shesaid."Getoutatheway."Sheswungmightilyatthefirstballpitchedtoherandhititovertheleftfielder’shead.Itwasgoodforanordinarydouble,butMaryHudsongottothirdonit—standingup.

           Whenmyastonishmenthadwornoff,andthenmyawe,andthenmydelight,IlookedoverattheChief.Hedidn’tsomuchseemtobestandingbehindthepitcherasfloatingoverhim.Hewasacompletelyhappyman.Overonthirdbase,MaryHudsonwavedtome.Iwavedback.Icouldn’thavestoppedmyself,evenifI’dwantedto.Herstickworkaside,shehappenedtobeagirlwhoknewhowtowavetosomebodyfromthirdbase.

           Therestofthegame,shegotonbaseeverytimeshecametobat.Forsomereason,sheseemedtohatefirstbase;therewasnoholdingherthere.Atleastthreetimes,shestolesecond.

           Herfieldingcouldn’thavebeenworse,butwewerepilinguptoomanyrunstotakeseriousnoticeofit.Ithinkitwouldhaveimprovedifshe’dgoneafterflieswithalmostanythingexceptacatcher’smitt.Shewouldn’ttakeitoff,though.Shesaiditwascute.