"Esther M. Friesner - Jesus at Bat" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

He didn't need her to tell him what champions meant. It was a fishbone of
resentment lodged deep in his throat, proof against all psychological Heimlich
maneuvers, that the Bobcats were the losingest team in the history of Little
League, baseball, and American sport. The only time a group of kids ended up
with that much public egg on their faces was during the Children's Crusade
when
hundreds of starry-eyed juvenile pilgrims to the Holy Land ended up in the
slave
pens of the East instead. But even some of those guys could hit better than
the
Bobcats.

For Vic Junior it was his mother's scorn that hurt more than losing per se. A
man might rail against the sun's rising in the east as easily as against the
Bobcats once again playing the part of the walked-on in the league's latest
walk-over -- such were the dull-eyed Facts of Life --but she didn't have to be
so mean about it! Of course she wouldn't see it that way; she'd say she was
only
being realistic.

In his subconscious, Vic Junior understood as follows: A man ought to be
entitled to hold onto his dreams without some fern ale always yawping at him
about reality. Somewhere in the Constitution it should say that any woman
apprehended in the act of trying to yank us back down to earth by the seat of
our pants will be stood on her head in a pit of hog entrails and left for the
buzzards, just to see how she likes that for reality!

But a little above the subconscious, in his heart-of-hearts, all that Vic
Junior
said into the listening dark was: Please, God, give us the way to win!

It was a child's simple prayer: sincere, unadorned, pure as a baby dewdrop. On
the cosmic scale of values it had clout, pizzazz, and buying power.

It worked.

EXCUSE ME, sir, but is this where the Little League tryouts are?"

Victor Harris looked down at the brat presumptuous enough to tug at his
clipboard-toting arm. "Who are you?" he snapped. His mirrorshades filtered
through the picture of a skinny twelve-year-old kid like many others on the
team: dark hair, dark eyes, all arms and legs, a little more sunbrowned than
most of the specimens currently blundering through warm-ups on the outfield.
"Did you sign up at school?"

"No, sir," the kid replied, too respectful to be true. "I just got here." He
tapped the brim of his cap so Victor could see the Angels logo.

Fine, good, no problemo, that explained it. Brothers' Meeting wasn't exactly
your hub of suburban commerce, but it was close to Pittsburgh. You did get the