Gold Dust Read Online Free PDF Page B

hitting, and something every kid in Boston tried at least once.
    “What about these twins people you keep talking about, Rice and Lynn. Maybe I should do them.”
    “Can’t,” I said crisply.
    “Why not?”
    “Because I am Lynn,” I said.
    “Ah. I see. Mr. Rice then?”
    I thought about that. It was true that Jim Rice had an ungodly beautiful stroke. It was as if he didn’t even use his arms—great big arms, I might add—but just flicked his wrists. And still, his ball went a mile. This would of course be a great thing to copy. But it was all but impossible, especially for a beginner.
    “Can’t be done,” I said with complete authority.
    “I see,” he said, nodding. “You mean you can’t do it.”
    “ I can’t... I ...?”
    “That’s all right,” Napoleon assured me. “I will watch him on television and teach myself. For now I will improvise.”
    I huffed, “I can’t... huh. ...” and went out to the machine.
    And he did improvise. Looked almost natural, but a little stiff at the same time, as Napoleon crouched just slightly, leaning over the plate. His hand position was good, the two mitts pressed together and held midchest high. He had a hard concentration look on as he let out a short quick bark to get me to feed the first ball.
    He looked so tough. I wanted to throw the ball myself. That’s what always happened when I saw an honest-to-god hitter. I wanted to go after him, to try and beat him, to pay my respect. Right now it made me just want to shove the machine aside and try to strike Napoleon out on my own.
    He looked ready.
    He looked like he meant business.
    I fed the beast and the first pitch came winging his way.
    He looked lost.
    The first swing—if you could call it that—I saw Napoleon Charlie Ellis take was like an apology in motion. It looked more like he was trying to use that fine piece of ash to kill a beetle at his feet, and I could tell he was embarrassed. But he curled himself right back into his stance. It was early season, even for me, and Napoleon was totally new. He’d get better.
    But not in the immediate future, I thought. The only reason his second cut was not worse than his first was that it was impossible to get worse than that first one. Not that he didn’t make the effort. His bat speed improved, but probably more out of anger than confidence. He missed the ball by so much, he may have had his eyes closed. A lot of little kids will do that when they swing their hardest, close their eyes midway through from the effort. I hoped Napoleon Charlie Ellis was not an eye-closer at this late age.
    “I could crank the speed down a little,” I said.
    I was only trying to help.
    Napoleon turned, hands on his hips, and glared at me so hard I thought he was going to come after me with the bat. He held the look long enough for the machine to send two more pitches sailing into the fence. I was still doing my job anyway. Not that it would have made any difference if Napoleon was there to wave at it.
    “I do not need it slow,” Napoleon snapped. “I am just having a bit of difficulty seeing the ball as it leaves the machine.”
    “A bit?” I said. “I don’t think you could miss worse if the machine was throwing M&M’s.”
    Which was not helpful, probably. He glared at me a little harder, then drew his glasses out of their case, out of his shirt pocket.
    Back in the box. Digging with one foot, digging with the other. Upright, hands high. Staring down the machine.
    Whiff. He missed cleanly. But this was not like before. This looked like he had swung a bat before.
    “So this really is your first time. You never played baseball, even once?” I asked.
    “Never. Cricket,” he said. “This bat feels strange to me.”
    The ball came over the plate. He swung late and fouled one off.
    “Well, it’s the way a bat should feel,” I said.
    “It is very light,” he said.
    Excuse me? My bat, light?
    He was starting to develop something of a rhythm now, and while he was still