As the kid crossed the pitcher’s mound he peeled off his uniform jersey and tossed it aside. When he opened his eyes the South Dakota shortstop was jogging back onto the field. He closed his eyes and tried to summon his strength. If he were smart he’d skip the championship game, drive the five hours north to campus, check himself into Student Health for an IV and a little sleep. Now he was stuck at this ramshackle ballpark between a junkyard and an adult bookstore on the interstate outside Peoria. He should be napping right now, preserving his knees, but his teammates had begged him to stick around. He should have skipped the tournament - varsity football practice at Westish, an infinitely more important endeavor, started tomorrow at dawn, suicide sprints in shorts and pads. He’d been pushing himself hard all summer - lifting weights every morning, ten-hour shifts at the foundry, baseball every night. Schwartz hated being the weak one, the one on the verge of passing out, but it couldn’t be helped.
The championship game would begin in half an hour. His teammates slung their gloves into the dugout and headed for the concession stand. He’d caught five games since Friday night, roasting like a beetle in his black catcher’s gear. It was technically evening, but the sun still beat down wickedly. Dizzy, he gave up and sank down to the dirt, let his huge aching back relax against the chain- link fence. Schwartz, who’d been weak with heat cramps all day, tossed his catcher’s mask aside and hazarded a few unsteady steps toward the dugout. The few dozen people in the stands clapped mildly as the last out was made. He’d spent the summer in Chicago, his hometown, and his Legion team had just beaten a bunch of farmboys from South Dakota in the semifinals of a no-name tournament. This was the second Sunday in August, just before Schwartz’s sophomore year at Westish College, that little school in the crook of the baseball glove that is Wisconsin. Only after the game ended, when the kid returned to the sun-scorched diamond to take extra grounders, did Schwartz see the grace that shaped Henry’s every move. Or rather, he noticed only what everyone else did - that he was the smallest player on the field, a scrawny novelty of a shortstop, quick of foot but weak with the bat.
Schwartz didn’t notice the kid during the game.
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