Story #10: "The Knuckleball Artist" (Chapter 25)

A Final Sunset, Crazy Frank, Myrtle & Maury, Homer the Pharmacist, and Marty the Democrat.

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CHAPTER 25

Myrtle Tried to Tell Them

It was the final pitch of the season.

The bases were loaded, of course. The count was 3-0. Phineas had thrown nineteen wild pitches in a row, each more spectacular than the last. One more and the Misfits’ winning run would score.

The home plate ump, What Cheer’s small claims court judge, called time to let the town get itself squared away and give his knees a break.

The nurses at the Final Sunset old folks home trued up the wheelchairs on the left field foul line, lining them up straighter than a 4th of July parade.

On the right field line, the defeated middle-schoolers rowed up: Sleepy Drugs Pharmacy, the Buttercup Pancakes, Lutheran Liquor & Lottery. They gathered like team photos, top of the order in back. Left fielders and second basemen in the middle. The ones batting last up front on one knee, There was some shoving and “accidental kicking” just shy of intervention.

The grocery store cashiers took turns poking their mean little heads out of the concession stand window. Pretty though, for the time being.

Crazy Frank with his June Christmas tree was there. He’d dragged his tree out of the house. “Six months of Noel, boys. One spark and nothing left but that angel there.”

Mary and Maury were there. Maury was gearing up to circle the basepaths backwards. He was already chuckling thinking about it, which put Mary in a growing funk. Every time he said, “No matter who wins the game,” she’d say, “Is that right, Maury?” It wasn’t really a question. But forty years together, the two of them spoke their own language.

Homer the Pharmacist fell into longer and longer silences trying to explain the rules of baseball to the 5th grade science teacher with the big city notions. This was also just shy of intervention.

Marty the Democrat with the Flag on His Lawn was up on the roof of WHAT CHEER?????? water tower with the spray-painted question marks. He watched through binoculars, his fingers stained red, white and blue. The man liked to live on the edge.

Myrtle, the Daffodil Prophet, stayed home, sitting bolt upright under a quilt. She’d laid her one-armed Barbies around her like a crop circle. “Told them who’d win since March, but not a living soul will listen,” she said, stacking up their little pink arms.

Every last one of them knew the boy would not throw a strike.

The boy knew he would not throw a strike.

*

But Phineas sure took a long time about not throwing one, flicking through that torn-up rule book, left and right.

Then all of a sudden, oh, what a grin peered out from under that donut of curly hair. It was the grin of a clean-up hitter mid walk-off home run.

The flagpole stopped clanging. Somewhere the town’s Notoriously Long Red Stop Light held its breath, and—depending what direction you were coming from—got stuck on a green.

Phineas finally stuffed the rule book back in his pocket, tipped his hat to the “home and away” crowds, and stared up at the Iowa state flagpole. You’d have thought he was retiring from baseball.

With that, Phineas put his mitt back on and turned towards home plate. The small claims court judge who’d been calling balls and strikes since the day that he banned Pinball from the field gave the “play ball” sign. Then he hunkered down as “square and fair” towards the pitching mound as he could, what with his bad knees from all the volunteering at home plate.

Phineas rubbed up his “2003 Bud Selig Major League Baseball,” then looked in for the sign from the catcher.

The Cougars’ catcher called for a fastball.

Phineas shook him off.

The curve ball.

Phineas shook him off.

Slider.

Phineas said, “Oh, please.”

It was turning into an argument.

Finally, when all but one of the known and unknown pitches of yesterday, today, and tomorrow were exhausted, the Cougars’ catcher threw his tulip catcher into the dugout. “Well, I definitely won’t be needing this.”

He fluttered the fingers of both hands between his legs and flashed the sign for a knuckleball.

It was the one pitch the Cougars didn’t want their Little Yipper to throw.

The season was over.

*

But the boy shook off the pitch.

He was not going to throw a knuckleball.

Myrtle tried to tell them.

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