Flights Read Online Free PDF Page A

pal,” Dom said. “We’re going to the field.”
    Upstairs he put on his better sneakers and found his glove, and when he came down they were all gone, waiting for him in the car out front. He crossed the backyard to the garden.
    His mother dug a neat row, creeping forward on her knees.
    â€œHey, Mom,” he said.
    â€œGood morning. You were up early.”
    He nodded but she didn’t see him.
    â€œSomething to do?”
    â€œUh-huh.” The car honked in the front and he put his glove on. “Cindy or Ginnie didn’t come?”
    â€œNo.” She caught part of a tomato plant with the weeder. “Where you going now? You have breakfast?”
    â€œI’ll get something when I get back.” He stepped toward the driveway. “You want me to stay around?”
    She looked up, surprised, and shook her head. He popped his fist into his glove and jogged around front.
    They got into a game with others at the field and played late into the afternoon. He played badly. While someone was retrieving a foul ball that had gone into the street, Dom left his position and walked over to him at second base.
    â€œYou won’t play second next year if you can’t turn two,” he said. He kept his voice down. Biddy moved away, wishing he hadn’t come home from the beach. His father watched them from the pitcher’s mound. Biddy wanted to play better. He wanted to handle himself competently, even if only momentarily. His father was frequently of the opinion that he couldn’t piss straight without a ruler.
    Dom followed him in a circle around second base. “Look, I’m not trying to make you feel bad. You told me you wanted to learn this game.”
    Biddy nodded.
    â€œWell, you’re going to have to start listening. You let that last one play you instead of playing it. Now don’t rush yourself. Are you listening?” Biddy nodded again. “Get to the bag and concentrate on the throw. And get your legs up if the runner’s coming in high.”
    He returned to third. “Now Mickey’s on first, so be ready for it if it’s on the ground.”
    And the next batter hit one on the ground to third as if on cue, and Dom said, “All right, Biddy,” and crouched for it, and Biddy came across and took the throw on the bag and started to pivot for the relay to first but Mickey hadn’t gone into his slide yet and only at the last moment was he able to get the throw up higher, to clear Mickey’s head. It pulled Louis, playing first, high off the bag.
    He stood where the throw had left him, hating the ball. His father and Dom were looking at him, he knew. No one spoke. What was he doing this for? Why was he always somewhere he didn’t want to be?
    â€œI didn’t want to hit Mickey,” he said.
    â€œDon’t worry about Mickey,” Dom said. “Worry about your throw. They’ll do that all day if you let them. Throw it where you’re supposed to throw it. Throw right through the runner. Believe me, he’ll get out of the way.”
    His father said something about bearing down. A boy he didn’t know stood on first. He looked at the batter. Hit it to me, he thought miserably. Hit it to me and I’ll throw it into the street. The batter dribbled it back to his father, who twirled and threw it to second, the ball and Biddy converging on the base from different angles, and he stomped on the bag and spun, whipping his arm around and rifling the ball low, and the boy coming into second jerked back and sprawled hard into the dirt as the ball went by his face on a line into Louis’s glove.
    â€œThere’s the double play,” his father called, and Dom said, “That’s turning two,” and they slapped each other five and trotted off the field together, Biddy following, stopping to help the boy still on his elbows in the base path up as he went by.
    He returned to the beach, unsure of his reason