It Happened One Autumn
Page 11
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Do you think they would let us play?” Daisy asked hopefully. “Just for a few minutes?”
“I don’t see why not. That red-haired boy—he was the one who let us borrow the bat before. I think his name is Arthur…”
At that moment a low, fast pitch streaked toward the batter, who swung in a short, expert arc. The flat side of the bat connected solidly with the leather ball, and it came hurtling toward them in a bouncing drive that was referred to as a “hopper” back in New York. Running forward, Lillian scooped up the ball in her bare hands and fielded it expertly, throwing it to the boy who stood at the first sanctuary post. He caught it reflexively, staring at her with surprise. As the other boys noticed the pair of young women who stood beside the paddock, they all paused uncertainly.
Lillian strode forward, her gaze finding the red-haired boy. “Arthur? Do you remember me? I was here in June—you loaned us the bat.”
The boy’s puzzled expression cleared. “Oh yes, Miss…Miss…”
“Bowman.” Lillian gestured casually to Daisy. “And this is my sister. We were just wondering …would you let us play? Just for a little while?”
A dumbfounded silence ensued. Lillian gathered that while it had been acceptable to loan her the bat, allowing her into a game with the other stable boys was another thing entirely. “We’re not all that bad, actually,” she said. “We both used to play quite a lot in New York. If you’re worried that we would slow your game—”
“Oh, it’s not that, Miss Bowman,” Arthur protested, his face turning as red as his hair. He glanced at his companions uncertainly before returning his attention to her. “It’s just that …ladies of your sort …you can’t…we’re in service, miss.”
“It’s your off-time, isn’t it?” Lillian countered.
The boy nodded cautiously.
“Well, it’s our off-time too,” Lillian said. “And it’s only a little game of rounders. Oh, do let us play—we’ll never tell!”
“Offer to show him your spitter,” Daisy said out of the corner of her mouth. “Or the hornet.”
Staring at the boys’ unresponsive faces, Lillian complied. “I can pitch,” she said, raising her brows significantly. “Fast balls, spit balls, hornet balls …don’t you want to see how Americans throw?”
That intrigued them, she could see. However, Arthur said diffidently, “Miss Bowman, if someone was to see you playing rounders in the stable yard, we’d likely get the blame for it, and then—”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Lillian said. “I promise you, we’ll take full responsibility if anyone catches us. I’ll tell them that we left you no choice.”
Though the group as a whole looked openly skeptical, Lillian and Daisy badgered and pleaded until they were finally allowed into the game. Taking possession of a worn leather-covered ball, Lillian flexed her arms, cracked her knuckles, and assumed a pitcher’s stance as she faced the batter, who stood at the base designated Castle Rock. Shifting her weight to her left foot, she stepped into the throw, launching the ball in a fast, competent pitch. It landed with a stinging smack in the catcher’s hand, while the batter swung and missed completely. A few admiring whistles greeted Lillian’s effort.
“Not a bad arm for a girl!” was Arthur’s comment, causing her to grin. “Now, miss, if you wouldn’t mind, what was that hornet ball you were talking about?”
Catching the ball as it was thrown back to her, Lillian faced the batter again, this time gripping the ball with only her thumb and first two fingers. Drawing back, she raised her arm, then threw the ball with a snap of her wrist, giving it a spin that caused it to veer sharply inward just as it reached Castle Rock. The batter missed again, but even he exclaimed in appreciation for the hornet ball. On the next pitch, he finally connected with the ball, sending it to the west side of the field, where Daisy happily scampered after it. She hurled it to the player at the third sanctuary post, who leaped in the air to snatch it in his fist.
In just a few minutes, the fast-paced enjoyment of the game caused the players to lose all self-consciousness, and their drives and throws and full-bore runs became uninhibited. Laughing and crowing as loudly as the stable boys, Lillian was reminded of the careless freedom of childhood. It was indescribable relief to forget, if only for a little while, the innumerable rules and the stifling propriety that had smothered them ever since they had set foot in England. And it was such a glorious day, the sun bright but so much gentler than it was in New York, and the air soft and fresh as it filled her lungs.
“Your turn at bat, miss,” Arthur said, raising a hand for her to toss the ball to him. “Let’s see if you can hit as well as you throw!”
“She can’t,” Daisy informed him promptly, and Lillian made a hand gesture that caused the boys to roar in scandalized delight.
Unfortunately it was true. For all her accuracy in pitching, Lillian had never mastered the art of batting— a fact that Daisy, who was a superior batter, took great delight in pointing out. Picking up the bat, Lillian gripped the handle like a hammer with her left hand, and left the index finger of her right slightly open. Cocking the bat over her shoulder, she waited for the pitch, timed it with her narrowed gaze, and swung as hard as she was able. To her frustration, the ball spun off the top of the bat and went sailing over the catcher’s head.
“I don’t see why not. That red-haired boy—he was the one who let us borrow the bat before. I think his name is Arthur…”
At that moment a low, fast pitch streaked toward the batter, who swung in a short, expert arc. The flat side of the bat connected solidly with the leather ball, and it came hurtling toward them in a bouncing drive that was referred to as a “hopper” back in New York. Running forward, Lillian scooped up the ball in her bare hands and fielded it expertly, throwing it to the boy who stood at the first sanctuary post. He caught it reflexively, staring at her with surprise. As the other boys noticed the pair of young women who stood beside the paddock, they all paused uncertainly.
Lillian strode forward, her gaze finding the red-haired boy. “Arthur? Do you remember me? I was here in June—you loaned us the bat.”
The boy’s puzzled expression cleared. “Oh yes, Miss…Miss…”
“Bowman.” Lillian gestured casually to Daisy. “And this is my sister. We were just wondering …would you let us play? Just for a little while?”
A dumbfounded silence ensued. Lillian gathered that while it had been acceptable to loan her the bat, allowing her into a game with the other stable boys was another thing entirely. “We’re not all that bad, actually,” she said. “We both used to play quite a lot in New York. If you’re worried that we would slow your game—”
“Oh, it’s not that, Miss Bowman,” Arthur protested, his face turning as red as his hair. He glanced at his companions uncertainly before returning his attention to her. “It’s just that …ladies of your sort …you can’t…we’re in service, miss.”
“It’s your off-time, isn’t it?” Lillian countered.
The boy nodded cautiously.
“Well, it’s our off-time too,” Lillian said. “And it’s only a little game of rounders. Oh, do let us play—we’ll never tell!”
“Offer to show him your spitter,” Daisy said out of the corner of her mouth. “Or the hornet.”
Staring at the boys’ unresponsive faces, Lillian complied. “I can pitch,” she said, raising her brows significantly. “Fast balls, spit balls, hornet balls …don’t you want to see how Americans throw?”
That intrigued them, she could see. However, Arthur said diffidently, “Miss Bowman, if someone was to see you playing rounders in the stable yard, we’d likely get the blame for it, and then—”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Lillian said. “I promise you, we’ll take full responsibility if anyone catches us. I’ll tell them that we left you no choice.”
Though the group as a whole looked openly skeptical, Lillian and Daisy badgered and pleaded until they were finally allowed into the game. Taking possession of a worn leather-covered ball, Lillian flexed her arms, cracked her knuckles, and assumed a pitcher’s stance as she faced the batter, who stood at the base designated Castle Rock. Shifting her weight to her left foot, she stepped into the throw, launching the ball in a fast, competent pitch. It landed with a stinging smack in the catcher’s hand, while the batter swung and missed completely. A few admiring whistles greeted Lillian’s effort.
“Not a bad arm for a girl!” was Arthur’s comment, causing her to grin. “Now, miss, if you wouldn’t mind, what was that hornet ball you were talking about?”
Catching the ball as it was thrown back to her, Lillian faced the batter again, this time gripping the ball with only her thumb and first two fingers. Drawing back, she raised her arm, then threw the ball with a snap of her wrist, giving it a spin that caused it to veer sharply inward just as it reached Castle Rock. The batter missed again, but even he exclaimed in appreciation for the hornet ball. On the next pitch, he finally connected with the ball, sending it to the west side of the field, where Daisy happily scampered after it. She hurled it to the player at the third sanctuary post, who leaped in the air to snatch it in his fist.
In just a few minutes, the fast-paced enjoyment of the game caused the players to lose all self-consciousness, and their drives and throws and full-bore runs became uninhibited. Laughing and crowing as loudly as the stable boys, Lillian was reminded of the careless freedom of childhood. It was indescribable relief to forget, if only for a little while, the innumerable rules and the stifling propriety that had smothered them ever since they had set foot in England. And it was such a glorious day, the sun bright but so much gentler than it was in New York, and the air soft and fresh as it filled her lungs.
“Your turn at bat, miss,” Arthur said, raising a hand for her to toss the ball to him. “Let’s see if you can hit as well as you throw!”
“She can’t,” Daisy informed him promptly, and Lillian made a hand gesture that caused the boys to roar in scandalized delight.
Unfortunately it was true. For all her accuracy in pitching, Lillian had never mastered the art of batting— a fact that Daisy, who was a superior batter, took great delight in pointing out. Picking up the bat, Lillian gripped the handle like a hammer with her left hand, and left the index finger of her right slightly open. Cocking the bat over her shoulder, she waited for the pitch, timed it with her narrowed gaze, and swung as hard as she was able. To her frustration, the ball spun off the top of the bat and went sailing over the catcher’s head.
