In a Pickle

by Lloyd B. Abrams

We were out behind Joey’s playing pickle. Joey Pena’s backyard was big – two houses wide – but it wasn’t big enough for us to do any real hitting without losing a baseball in the bushes or poison ivy or maybe breaking a window in Joey’s house.

We were playing pickle because we figured it would be good practice for a rundown in a real game. Plus we had nothing else to do. It was a hot August afternoon and we were as bored as twelve-year-olds can be. Bobby and I were the infielders and Joey and Eddie were runners. They weren’t doing much running, but they were doing a lot of jawing. I had the ball and Joey was dancing off Bobby’s base. He was calling me a dopey ass, a crappy ballplayer and that I stunk real bad.

As Joey started to fake a run, I threw the ball to Bobby but it hit Joey smack in the middle of his face. Or, I might’ve thrown the ball and then Joey started to run. It wasn’t really too clear.

Anyway, Joey fell down, grabbing his face. There was blood all over. Joey’s mother came running out. She was screaming in Spanish. When she saw Joey’s face she started hollering at us. “Get the fuck out of here you little bastards!” she yelled. Joey’s uncle must have heard the commotion because he flew out of the other house and started running towards us.

We jumped on our bikes and took off. On the way to the Maple Street dock, Bobby pulled alongside and said, “Lenny … you hit him on purpose, didn’t you?”

Why would he think that? “No I didn’t. No way,” I said.

“I know you did. You didn’t like what he was saying. And I saw how you threw the ball.”

Truth is, I never really liked Joey Pena. He always wanted things his own way. One time, we were playing wiffle ball behind his house. He and his little brother were losing bad. Just after Joey struck out he said, “Listen … I gotta go in. And you guys gotta go home.” We all knew the only reason was because he was a sore loser.

My father came home from work around six. Before he even said hello to Mom, he said, “I’ve got to talk to you right now.” He looked so serious. And upset. We went outside on the porch and he sat across from me at the table.

“Lenny … what the hell happened at Joey’s house?”

“We were playing pickle – you know – running bases. I threw the ball to Bobby and it hit Joey in the face.”

“Did you … throw … the ball … at him?”

“No, Dad. It was an accident.”

“Well, you broke his damn nose.”

“I broke his nose?”

“Yeah, Lenny. And he’ll have to wear a bandage over it for the rest of the summer. And worse, they’re hoping it’ll heal correctly and he won’t need surgery.”

Mom had come out on the porch. She stood behind me, her hand on my shoulder. She said, “That’s terrible. But it was an accident, right?”

“Well, Mrs. Pena doesn’t think so. She called me at the store and said that Lenny threw at Joey on purpose. That the throw was harder – and higher – than it should have been. Even one of Lenny’s friends thought that he did. She said she’s gonna get a lawyer. And she’s threatening to sue us. They could take away our house. The could sue the store. It could ruin us.”

“How can she sue us? They’re just kids playing ball.”

“I don’t know, Sheila. I’m just telling you what she said.”

My mother sat down next to me. “Look at me Lenny. Turn around and look at me.”

She stared into my eyes. I swallowed, hard. “Lenny, are you absolutely sure it was an accident? That you didn’t hit him on purpose?”

“C’mon, Ma. I’m not even that good,” though I did have a good arm.

There was silence. My father was shaking his head real slow. A few moments passed.

Then, “Okay, Lenny,” my dad said. “As long as you’re being honest with us. We’ll take it from here.”

Mom and Dad went inside. I saw them through the kitchen window quietly arguing. I knew it was about me. I knew they were angry.

I knew that I didn’t really throw at Joey Pena. Not on purpose, anyway. But it was a good shot. And he did deserve it.

Rev 4 / October 16, 2014

-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 33, November 2014

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October 2014 … Copyright © 2014 Lloyd B. Abrams