"Levy-NewHorizons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Levy Robert J)

was soon back at the "plate," and it was again Huge's turn at bat.

He went through the same quirky routine: holding the ball high above his head
and spinning the bat around one-handed at blinding speed. This time he knocked
out a line-drive double that smacked off Mitch's fingertips, stinging his hands
red. Later in the game, on his next two at-bats, Huge hit a triple and a
towering fly ball down the block that fell in for a home ran.

Nobody was saying what was really on their minds, but I knew. Here was a kid who
had never played stickball before, and he'd managed to hit for the cycle in just
a few innings. It almost seemed as though he had misunderstood me when I had
explained the game to him, and thought that he was supposed to progressively
move from hitting singles to doubles to triples and then home runs.

It was again Huge's turn to hit, and I called to him as he moved toward the
plate: "Hey, Huge, what are you gonna hit now? Nothing's bigger than a home
run."

Huge looked at me quizzically for a moment. Then he made one of his
trumpet-whinny sounds, and I could have sworn he was laughing to himself. He
moved clumsily to the plate and stared far down the street.

And what a stare. It was a strange moment, and I think everyone felt it. You
almost got the sense he was looking for something beyond the home run boundary
of the red convertible Plymouth. He just stood there gawking for awhile.
Finally, the kids in the outfield started razzing him, yelling for him to come
on and hit. Then his head jerked in a funny way, like he'd found his mark or
spotted something far, far down the street. But what it was I could not say.
Then Huge looked over at me.

"C'mon, man," I yelled at him, laughing. "Hit already, before I grow a beard!"

And Huge did a funny thing. He raised his hand and pointed upwards and away down
the street, as though he were trying to tell me something. I couldn't help but
be reminded of the moment Babe Ruth supposedly pointed to the bleachers to show
the crowd exactly where he was going to send the next pitch.

Then Huge held the spaldeen above his goofy-looking head, and he let it drop,
and it fell, and he whipped the broomhandle around like the perfect batting
machine he was, and the ball took off.

And it kept going.

From the first second the ball sailed over the heads of the fielders, it was
clear to everyone that this shot was headed way, way beyond the red Plymouth,
which meant it would sail over into the grassy lots alongside the train tracks.

Except that's not what happened.

What really occurred is subject to dispute among those who participated in the