It's the feast of the Epiphany, the twelfth day of Christmas, when the Three Wise Men arrived in Bethlehem and presented the baby Jesus with gifts of incense, frankincense and myrrh. My mom refused to take down the tree and decorations before this day. Unfortunately, that tradition has gone by the boards, done in perhaps by the early start to the season, which seems to get earlier each year.
I thank the kind woman who purchased a Kung Fu Panda book for her son, and another on the biblical Psalms for herself. And thanks also to the Merry Mailwoman, who was thrilled at the chance to work overtime, for buying Stieg Laarsen's wildly popular The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
Here's an excerpt from a short story, The Bat, I've had trouble getting published. It's a tweener, about a child but not really a children's story. It may be of particular interest to anyone who learned to play baseball in a schoolyard:
Seated with his back to the wall of the four-story building, Tony marvelled at the long drives propelled by the bat of Frankie De Carlo. Batting righthanded, the muscular teenager displayed exquisite form: feet parallel, slight crouch, elbow raised. His swing was effortless, level, fluid, set in motion by the tiniest of strides. He hit the ball so squarely it barely flew as high as the three-tiered cyclone fence that enclosed the schoolyard. The ping of the aluminum striking the ball was crisp. Drive after drive struck the steel mesh forcefully, as if the ball were being shot out of a cannon. The Rabbi's windows, just beyond the leftfield fence, were again in jeopardy. The playground was still. Everyone was watching.
"There's Petey Marino," said the pitcher urgently, craning his neck, gazing beyond Frankie.
Frankie's head snapped about. Relief came over his face. Marino, the legendary sandlot coach, was nowhere in sight. The pitcher laughed. Frankie flushed, smiling. Marino punished any boy he found playing softball, claiming the lob pitching and larger ball ruined timing.
"I better go," said Frankie self consciously.
Tony, a dark-haired, crewcut boy of eleven, was disappointed. He secretly worshipped Frankie, who had started as a sophomore this season at Lafayette High School, which had produced, among others, Sandy Koufax and John Franco. Tony dreamed of following in their footsteps. He was sure Frankie would. Tony longed to talk to him. It was against the unwritten code of the schoolyard, however: the younger boys were not to address the older unless spoken to first.
Bored by the mediocrity of the others, Tony headed for the nearest exit, which was just beyond the batter's box. At the curb, beside the fire hydrant, he spotted a wooden bat split just below the label. He gazed about, seized the bat, and hurried across the two-lane street, looking back, expecting to be called a thief. Why had the bat been abandoned? he wondered. The break wasn't severe. It could easily be repaired.
He raced into a backyard and examined his find more closely. He gripped the bat at the handle, assumed his stance, and swung. His arms were not strong enough to carry it through the strikezone properly. He choked up several inches and had greater success, although his swing was still awkward. He smiled broadly, as thrilled as the day he'd found the old glove. He would no longer have to use a friend's bat nor have to ask his mother to buy him one for his birthday. He could be satisfied with the clothing she would undoubtedly give him.
He rested the bat against the two-story house, certain his landlord, who occupied the ground floor, would leave it be. He dared not take it inside, certain his mother would tell him to get rid of it.
"Ma?" he said, stepping into a small, tidy basement apartment crowded with old furniture.
A pale, attractive woman of medium height and shapely figure was before a bureau mirror, brushing her permed, dark hair. "I'm goin' out," she said, selecting a lipstick from amongst the countless cosmetics atop the bureau, coloring her lips a lush red. "There's cold cuts in the 'frigerator."
"Why d'you always tell me that? I know where the food is. I can take care of myself."
"Didja do ya homework?"
"As soon as I came home from school. You were still sleepin'."
"Don't lie now. I don't want you to be no drop-out."
"Don't worry. I like school. How many times I hafta tell you? It don't matter if you don't have a father there. You can still be better than anybody else. Too bad it's almost over."
"I don't know when I'll be home. Don't stay up too late, an' don't forget to take a shower an' set the alarm. An' lock the door."
"Don't forget your keys. I don't want you wakin' me up in the middle of the night like that one time."
A car horn sounded. She seized her bag and hurried to the door in heels. "Bye, Tone," she said before stepping out. "Be good."
"I will, Ma. See you tomorrow."
Read Vic's stories, free:
http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
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