Remember how skinny he was? He had blonde hair and wore a button-up shirt that was thin as onion skin. And brown, polyester pants with a pair of cheap black Oxfords. He was covered in dust like he had been pulled from a drawer of old coats. When I learned the word sneered I immediately thought of him.

I’ve never imagined myself inside his pale skin. Never thought to be any closer to him than we were that day when he said I could play for the Cincinnati Reds. I could’ve played shortstop. I had a strong arm. But I will; I will crawl beneath his sickness-yellow, onion-skin thin, short-sleeve button-up. His words are another language inside layers of my memory. I’ll get close to his heart and see if it beats like ours, one second at a time.

***

I feel good about this one. I feel safe anyways. It’s Sunday and the gas station is closed and the cake shop is closed and the barber shop and there’s nobody, not even a little traffic coming from Pikeville through to Jonancy or back. Just nothing but this little boy throwing his rubber ball against the side of the building and catching it in his glove.

He’s beautiful. Blonde hair long down to his shoulders, athletic. Quick! Man is he quick. Better watch for that. I'm not quick. I’ve not been quick in a long time. But it’s a guarantee I’m stronger and more willful. Definitely stronger. He’s a boy and I’m a man.

Plain truth is, I have to have this. And it has to be today. This quiet Sunday.

He hasn’t so much as noticed me sitting over here. His mind is somewhere far away, some ballpark where he’s pitching a no-hitter. It’s not like I’m hiding, really. I’ve got this big boat of a yellow car, I stand out in a crowd myself with my hair the color of creek mud greasy down my back and my old clothes, those polyester shirts with the big collars from some years back that everybody stopped wearing except people who couldn’t afford to stop wearing them. The same with the pants. I’m skinny to the point that people remember it about me. I look exactly like the kind of person who would kidnap a little boy. Kidnap and maybe worse. I’ve not decided yet.

Not one miss. He’s been throwing at that wall for over a half hour and he’s made the stop every time. He’s actually really good. I mean he would turn some heads at a practice. And then there it was. The idea. The way to make this happen.

I step out of the car and shut the door. It rattles a sound across the whole street, but the boy doesn't turn. It wouldn’t matter if he did turn, it wouldn't matter if he saw me. I have a plan now. I’m looking for top talent, which is not so far from true.

***

Now breathe. Now try to breathe.

Sheldon Lee Compton is the author of eight books of fiction and poetry. His first nonfiction book, The Orchard Is Full of Sound, is due out from West Virginia University Press in 2022. Cowboy Jamboree Press will publish his Collected Stories in the fall of 2021. He lives in Pike County, Kentucky.

The snack bar was out of hot dogs. I bought a soda instead. I was not really feeling a hot dog anyway.

“My boy is going to be the next Mike Trout,” this middle-aged mom said to anyone who would listen. During the winter months she took her 12-year-old to an indoor batting cage. This former minor league baseball player gave him personal lessons. Her son was good. But he was not Mike Trout good.

Our boys’ baseball team was dragging through the dog days of summer. We travelled throughout small towns in South Jersey. We won one. We lost one. The team was neither good nor bad. My son enjoyed playing, but he was one of the worst kids on the team.

Some of the parents were upset the team was not playing better. A few of the kids also played on an elite travel team. They hated losing. Half the kids on the team were named Chase. Some yelled at the umpires over a borderline call. A lot of the parents hung their own dreams and aspirations onto the kids.

My son came up to the plate. He had only two hits so far this season. The season was half over. I noticed a few parents roll their eyes. He was one of the smaller kids on the team. The other team’s pitcher was tall for his age. His fastball was probably close to 70 miles per hour. He had a moustache.

My son dug in and tapped home plate with his bat. Although he could not hit, he never showed fear. The first pitch was a fastball on the inside part of the plate. Strike one. My son stepped out, took a practice swing, and then stepped back into the batter’s box. The pitcher kicked and unleashed another fastball.

This pitch was also inside. In fact, it was too inside. My son did not bother to get out of the way. The ball drilled him in the back. The umpire told him to take first base.

“He didn’t bother to get out of the way” the opposing team’s coach called out. The pitcher looked upset.

I watched my son trot to first base.

“Don’t rub it,” I mumbled to myself.

My son did not rub his back where the ball hit him. It would leave a mark. The first base coach gave him a high five. They were both smiling.

If the snack bar made more hot dogs, I would buy my son one along with a soda after the game.

Jason Love lives in New Jersey. He is working on a novel tentatively titled Hey, Jay Bob (you're an @sshole): A Love Story. Thank you for taking the time to read his story.