"Esther M Friesner - Jesus At The Bat" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

that boy has grown. Why, just the other day Vic was saying to me, 'Barb, I'd
like to see what Bobby Drummer could do if I gave him a chance to pitch, I
really would.'"

It was all over except for where to ship the body.

Sally McClellan's face sank in on itself like an old helium balloon with a
pinhole leak. "Isn't that interesting," she said through a smile so stiff it
clattered. "But do you think it's wise? My Jason has always pitched for the
Bobcats, and I assumed --"

Barb laughed. "It's not like Vic was breaking up a winning team set-up, sweetie.
Who knows? If Vic gives Bobby a chance to pitch, maybe that'll turn the trick.
And you should have seen Bobby's little face light up when I told him what Coach
Vic was considering."

"Considering? Then it's not settled?" Sally's eyes flashed. She fingered her
hair. "You know, it's so easy to let yourself go over the winter, don't you
agree, Barb? Maybe I should take a lesson off Marylynn Drummer. You got room for
another standing appointment on your calendar?"

"I'll see what I can do," Barb murmured. "Of course it is harder to fit things
in these days. Did I tell you that Pauline Fleck's having me host an Amway party
at her family reunion?" Needless to say, Barb went on to rhapsodize over how
much dear little Scott Fleck had grown this past winter and didn't Sally agree
that the boy deserved a tryout as pitcher for the Bobcats, too?

That night, Victor didn't have to listen to Barb's barbs about where he was on
the stairway to success and where he ought to be. Happily swamped with pleas for
La Belle and Amway appointments (high tips and high sales guaranteed, you
betcha), Barb had better things to do with her tongue than rag on the man whose
chronic underemployment made his Little League coaching job possible. Yes,
baseball season was upon them once more, and so long as Victor owned the power
to say whose son played (and whether the boy's field position were somewhere in
this time-zone), domestic bliss and Barb's own auburn-turfed diamond were his
all his.

Nor did it matter a lick that the Brothers' Meeting Bobcats were a team so slack
and poorly that a reputable publisher of dictionaries had asked them to pose as
the illustration for pathetic.

No, it didn't matter to Coach Vic at all, but it mattered very much to Vic
Junior.

Vic Junior loved baseball. He was one of those pure souls born with a vision of
The Game untainted by the dross and illusion of this sorry world. To him,
baseball spoke of Buddha-nature, not Lite Beer. (The Tao which can be named is
not the Tao, but the Tao which has its batting stats printed on the back of a
trading card is way awesome.) I The smell of a newly oiled glove, the clean
crack of bat hitting ball, the sight of so many strong, young lads tearing