Wet Wool

         Big John and Harry are facing all the rest of us in the backyard. The sky is all gray and it feels like it’s almost nighttime, even though it’s really only three o’clock. Harry’s got the big wooden baseball bat resting on his shoulder, occasionally taking swings at a pretend fastball thrown by a pretend pitcher; Big John is rolling the bright yellow tennis ball down his arm, flicking it up when it reaches his wrist. They’re brothers and they’re the oldest, so they get to be Captains.
         I’m standing in the middle of the yard with all the rest of the boys, waiting to make teams. I look around, trying to figure out whose side I’d want to be on; almost all of them play baseball. I’m not old enough to play real Little League yet, and I don’t like tee-ball, so I told my mom not to sign me up. The boys are all trying to decide which positions they’re going to play, depending on who’s on their team; we’re going to have, like, five pitchers. They’re talking just over the strands of hair I can feel sticking up on the back of my head—Mom must’ve missed them when she combed my hair before we left today. The ground is sort of gross and mushy from rain last night, and I have to move my feet all the time or else I’ll sink into the mud a little and get my shoes really dirty. I’m the only one who’s dressed up nice, too. Mom bought me a new sweater for this party, but I don’t like it; it’s yellow. She says its “cream colored,” but even Dad called it yellow. She also said it was a Wool Sweater. No one else is wearing one; they’re all wearing jeans and t-shirts and sneakers.
         Big John picks Ted first, which makes sense because he’s the next oldest; that rule doesn’t really make a difference for me, since everyone here is older than I am. Then Harry takes Nick because he’s really strong and can hit. Big John gets Bobby, who is fast, and Harry picks Chris since he is a shortstop on his Little League team. Jamie and Little Johnny (since he’s younger than Big John) play baseball too. George gets picked because he’s older than the rest of us, and I guess Max is taken because he’s better than me (but I don’t think so, ‘cause I’m taller, and I think a little faster, and I can hit better, and he’s really just a big dork). John, Ted, Jamie, Bobby George. Harry, Johnny, Chris, Nick and Max. That’s it. Those are the teams. Max glances at me and smiles. “Too bad, loser. Maybe when you learn how to hold the bat up, then you can play,” he says. The two groups walk to opposite end of the yard and get ready to play, leaving me around where the pitcher’s mound will probably be.
         Over to one side of the yard there’s a table and chairs where my cousins Elaine and Arlene are playing Crazy Eights with all the other girls. Elaine looks over and sees me all alone and then yells for her little brother: “Johnny! You guys forgot James.” She sounds just like her mom when she yells at him like that, like a mini-Auntie Connie; it’s kind of weird.
         Johnny looks up from taking practice swings with the bat. “We did? Well, I mean…” His eyes are wide open, and his lips turn down a little. It sounds like he’s going to do something about it. Then one of the Captains steps in.
         “Y’know, James, we can’t mess up the teams now,” says Harry, “they’d be uneven. You can play next game.”
         Now I just feel stupid standing in the middle of the yard all by myself, so I head towards the house to wait until the next game, pretending like I don’t mind. I hear a snort from behind me and Max’s voice: “Told ya’ so, geek.”
         I march up the creaky wooden stairs and go back up to the huge screened-in porch. There’s a big table with Orderves up here, and I look down it for something that I’d like. Outside, Max is running out to the back fence to field a ball that Ted hit way out there, and he’s not even running fast; I would’ve gotten the ball home by now. There’s no shrimp or sausage or Pigs-In-Blankets left, just the vegetables and dip. I hate vegetables.
         “What’s wrong, James? Why aren’t you playing baseball with the boys?” Auntie Connie is leaning over me, reaching for a piece of cauliflower. She’s been in the house all day helping out with the food. Everyone’s celebrating Uncle Peter’s Engagement; I guess he has to live with his Girlfriend now. Her big hoop earrings dangle as she looks down at me. She scares me a little bit because she always talks so loud. Actually, she yells a lot, especially at Johnny and Uncle Steve; and she doesn’t smile much. I never know what to say to her.
         “They, um, they said they already have their teams made. I’ll just wait for the next game.” I hope that’s all I need to say for her to leave me alone. Her face kind of crinkles up, the way my mom’s did when she found out that I…
         “Oh stop it, you can play.” Oh man. This is not a good thing. She moves over to the screen door and pushes it open. “Johnny!” she screams, so loud that I cringe and take a step back. I wonder if the neighbors think our family is nuts. I do. She takes a breath. “Johnny! Johnny, let James play baseball with you!” She looks at me, and sort of half-smiles as she holds the door open. “Go on down, James.”
         This is just great. I can’t not play, now that Auntie Connie has made such a big deal out of it. I trudge back down the wooden stairs, and they seem to be creaking a lot louder now. I’m looking straight down at the steps because I don’t want to see the way any of them are looking at me, especially Johnny. Max snickers and says, “What a douche; had to get his auntie to let him play.” I step down onto the grass and can hear the others talking to each other. Now what?
         “Get up against the house James.” I look up to see Johnny at first base pointing towards home plate. “You can be catcher for both teams,” he says. It’s better than nothing, I guess. I don’t have a glove, and I can’t crouch, in case I lose my balance into the mud, so I lean on the wood siding of the maroon house.
         Nick is pitching and Jamie is standing in the pretend batter’s box that sur-rounds the hot pink frisbee that is home plate. Nick throws the tennis ball low, Jamie doesn’t swing, and it bounces off the frisbee and towards me. I have to throw it as hard as I can to get it back to him.
         “James, you don’t actually have to stand up against the house,” says Max from the outfield. “You can move closer to the plate. What, are you afraid the ball’s gonna hit you?”
         “No,” I say, and move five steps closer to Jamie. On the next pitch, he takes a big swing and hits the ball right over Nick’s head, and Max starts running after it; Jamie’s team starts yelling for him to run out a double. Ted runs towards me and steps on the frisbee.
         “One-nothing, pussies,” he says as he walks back to the rest of his team, where they all give him high-fives. I smile and then look at the porch real quick to make sure that my mom isn’t there listening to us.
         I drop a lot of balls and let a lot go past me. “Let’s go butterfingers! Hold onto that ball!” they yell. I can’t help it. The ball’s soggy from falling into the puddles that are all over the yard, and Nick throws hard. Finally I figure out a trick—I just hold my hand out and try to slap the ball down at the last second. Ted’s team scores one more run before they get three outs and switch sides.
         Somehow Max manages to weasel his way into batting first for his team. He walks past me with the bat, which is way too big for him to hold, and grins at me. Then he looks at his brother Jamie, who’s pitching, and starts: “Let’s go idiot, bet you can’t throw a strike against me. I’m gonna knock it right in your face.” Jamie throws a fastball and Max swings, misses. Ha. Loser. Everyone laughs, even his own team, as I throw the ball back to Jamie. My arm is starting to hurt. “Whatever, that was a crappy pitch,” says Max.
         On the next pitch, Max swings and tips the ball straight back into my chest. It doesn’t hurt much, but I look down and see a round mud spot dribbling down my Yellow Wool Sweater right where the ball hit. “Oh man,” I say. I throw the ball back and inspect my shirt.
         “Ha, sucks for you, Snot,” says Max. “You got your dorky yellow sweater all dirty.”
         “Oh shut up, Max,” I say. “It’s not yellow. It’s cream-colored.”
         He pets my shoulder like a dog. “Sorry, your dorky cream-colored sweater.” I push his hand away with mine, but he brings it back. I push his shoulder.
         “Get outta here, Max. It’s not funny.”
         “Oh, poor James’s mom’s gonna yell at him for gunkin’ up his cream-colored sweater.” I look at Max smiling, and then, without even playing it in my head first, push him hard, with both hands, in the shoulder. He spins around, just like someone who’s been kicked in the face in a Kung-Fu movie, and lands, kneeling, in a mud puddle. Everyone’s laughing. “Ah-ha, Max, you dork,” someone says. “It looks like you landed in dog crap!” Max gets up and brushes his knees off a little.
         “I’m taking first because of Batter Interference,” he says, making up a rule. Everyone’s laughing so much that they don’t even bother telling him that it’s not a real one. He looks back at me as he walks towards the base and says, “I’m gonna steal on you, Snot.”
         I try to ignore him, but then I get a little worried. I can’t even hold onto a pitch that someone throws to me, how am I going to stop the loser from stealing? Captain Harry, still giggling a little, picks up the bat and digs into the batter’s box. He takes a couple of practice swings.
         Jamie throws the ball, but Harry doesn’t swing. Strike one. He doesn’t argue. I throw the ball back and see Max over at first creeping off the hockey stick that is subbing as the base. I take a couple of steps closer to the frisbee so I can get the ball faster if he decides to run. Jamie throws the ball again, low this time, and I pick it up quick and look at first. Max is still there, smiling at me. Moron.
         As Jamie gets ready for the next pitch, Harry steps out of the imaginary box and takes a few more swings. He steps back in and I try to keep my eye on Max to make sure he doesn’t steal, but still be able to see Jamie. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jamie throw the ball and I turn my head to see the ball. Just then, Max sprints for the Grip-It Velcro-Catch glove that is second base. Harry takes a big swing but I don’t hear the bat connect. Then I feel the force of a thick wooden bat crash into the side of my head.


         When I open my eyes, I see my mom’s face hanging over me, and my dad, holding my little sister in his arms, behind her. All the adults are standing around the green couch that I’m lying on, with the boys watching from behind them. It’s like I’m dying or something.
         I try to sit up, but my mom pushes me back down by the forehead. “No, honey, don’t get up yet.” She’s holding a Ziploc bag filled with ice against my head, right behind my ear. I can feel my pulse pounding there and it feels like my head’s bleeding. I reach for the spot, and run my fingers over a big lump. “It’s just a bump,” my mom says. “No blood.”
         All the adults start mumbling to each other. “He’s fine. Just a bump.” And they go back to the party. “What happened?” I ask.
         “Your head tried to be a baseball,” my dad says, smiling at his joke. “Knocked you out a good two minutes.”
         “It was pretty freakin’ cool,” says Jamie, who is still standing by the couch with the rest of the boys. My mom gives him a dirty look, and his eyes open wide. “I mean, I hope you’re okay.”
         There’s a really gross, musty smell around me; I’ve never smelled it before. “What’s that nasty smell?” I ask.
         “You fell in a mud puddle when Harry hit you,” she says. “Your wool sweater got all wet with it. Pretty disgusting, huh?”
         I look at my dad. “Do you have any Excedrin?” He always has Excedrin with him because he always has a headache. My mom tells him that if he takes them all the time it’ll give him an Ulcer. They laugh at me.
         “No, no Excedrin, I’ll get you some Tylenol,” says my mom, and she gets up to go to the kitchen.
         Harry leans over the couch and pats me on the head. “Hey, I’m sorry about that, man. I didn’t see that you were so close to me.”
         “S’okay.”
         “We’re gonna go down the basement, James,” says Big John. “As soon as your mom says you’re okay, come down. We’re gonna play Contra.”
         “Okay,” I say, and the boys shuffle away. Max keeps looking back at me as they leave, like I have a tube up my nose or something. Just as he gets to the top of the stairs that go down to the basement, he looks back once more and smiles at me open-mouthed, pretending to laugh, pointing a finger at me.
         “Oh stop it you dink,” says Jamie, and he smacks him hard across the back of the head, knocking him off his feet, making him stumble down the stairs. I can hear his butt bouncing on the carpeted steps—one, two three, four, five quick bumps to the landing, and then a solid thump when he stops falling. After a second, he groans pathetically, more like a dog whimpering, actually, and I can’t help but burst out laughing at the sound he makes. Then I feel a tap at my shoulder, and I look to see my mom giving me that look…
         “What?”
         “Don’t you laugh at him,” she says. “You’re the one with the golf ball growing out from behind your ear.”