InsaneJournal

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Mihael had never played baseball before.

As if that weren't enough, the boys in the villiage had a semi-regular season going... if semi-regular meant "everyday, starting right after school, noon on Saturdays, going on 'til sunset. Anyone who doesn't play is either a boob or Mihael." Which really said a lot about Mihael's standing in the neighborhood.

Bases were easy enough to get their hands on--filch four big ole' children's bibles from the nursery and say Hail Mary five times real fast under your breath, and it's not like they weren't going to return 'em--and the villiage being such a small one, it was easy enough to mark the running lines on the street. First base was always right in front of Mrs. Wierstat, mindin' the firstbaseman doesn't mind getting pelted with breadcrusts from the ol' blind lady trying to feed the talking pigeons, and third base was in front of the mailbox, mindin' that everybody scrambled when the big out-of-town mail truck came by on Saturday afternoon. Second base and the home plate roamed around a little bit, but they were always centered on the pitcher's 'mound', which was really just a big X in the middle of the Dirt, and that was centered in between first and third, which barely ever changed, so it was alright. There were enough kids, when they let the girls play, to have a shortstop and outfielders on both teams, and so long as you knew the basic rules of the game, you could make up whatever you liked.

The boys had such an effictient system going, having a newbie like Mail would slow everything down. But if he could get his new older brother Mihael involved...

Which is why Mihael found himself crouching behind homeplate with his hands curved slightly--they had only one mitt, and the pitcher had claimed that--as Mail swung his bat, as though he were testing it--they only had the one bat, but he wasn't going to complain about it. He was just mimicking what he saw on TV when his old dad watched baseball. Mihael had the unique sensation of actually watching as Mail froze, tensed up, as the hairs on the back of his neck rose of their own volition.

He whispered quickly in Mail's ear, hoping he wouldn't have to call a time out. "Another ghost? Just nod, don't speak." Mail nodded. "Where?"

"Just behind Emily," Mail whispered quickly. Emily wasn't the girl's name, but her initials, MLE, and she was in Right Field.

"Perfect," Mihael whispered. Mail started to turn around, his mouth already forming the the shout of confusion, but a poke on his cheek detered him. "Hit a ball to right field then." Mihael leaned back, not listening for an answer, and motioned to go easy on the kid, he was only four and probably going to miss anyways.

Mail did miss the first pitch. It was a simple miscalculation, putting his bat where it would need to be in order to hit the dark shape behind Emily and forgetting that he had to look for where the pitcher was aiming.

He missed the second pitch, but that was because in his excitement he swung early.

The third pitch flew high and smooth, a perfect hit, until it, unnaturally for anyone else who was watching, seemed to strike something in clear air and fell hard onto Emily's head. "OWW!" Mail needed a poke in the side from Mihael to remember to run his bases.

Normally, with a short, tiny thing like him, he'd be lucky if he made first base, with all the bigger, older kids trying to catch him. Finally, a practical use for all of his running-from-the-big-evil-things-that-want-to-eat-me experience. The first baseman, Ralf today, never Ralph, caught the ball from Emily and dove to try to hit him, because when had he started running to get here so quick? Mail juped over Ralf's outstretched arm, running on top of him and jumping hard onto the children's bible at his feet.

The second baseman, a seventh grader by the name of Mark, was smarter. He waited--not very long--until Mail was in arm's reach, because he was a seventh grader and he had huge arms, but Mail had an easy time ducking under him. Gary, the third baseman, was waiting for him with the ball. Mail had a bone to pick with Gary. Yesterday was the third time that the third grader had cornered him in his own--for now he could say it and mean it--backyard, trying to pick on him because he was smart, because he was new, and because his older brother(s) came to his rescue. He was four years old, dammit! Mail pretended to trip--he was good at pretending to trip, he took a spill for real so often--and pegged the evil, evil, evil boy perfectly in the stomache. They both fell, Mail on top of Gary. He took a minute to breath. It seemed Gary had hit his head on the mailbox--Mail hoped he had a concussion-- but luckily, his arm with the ball flew out, not in. Mail was still safe.

"Sorry!" He shouted, and took off. He was almost home free. He wanted to dive for it, but didn't need to--Gary was only just standing up, the ball wouldn't get there in time. Unfortunately, this time he really did trip, and gravity decided that a face-first dive was just what the doctor ordered.

"SAFE!" Both teams' catcher cried at once. Mail was the last batter for their team, and since it was the nineteenth inning and the sun was setting, it meant that Mail's team had won by a whole home run. Mail's teammates for the day rushed the boy and but him up over his shoulders, Mihael following behind slightly.

"Yo, Mihael," Mark called as the unofficial captain of their team. "Where're you goin'?" It was one of their rules that the losing team had to clean up after the game.

"My little brother just one his very first baseball game," Mihael called back. "I think I'm going to celebrate."

And thus, a new rule was made for the local baseball team: If one of the boys living in the Keehl house was on the winning team, they both went home to celebrate.

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