Playing Ugly.

Playing Ugly

“Please tell me we accidentally wandered onto a church softball field,” Smitty Carroll asked out loud.

“We needed four teams to make this thing work,” Coach Taylor Nickles said. “This Mason City farmer guy was willing to pay the money, mostly because I think he wanted to show his boys he used to be pretty good at baseball back in the day, before he started having kids.”

The HooseCows were trying to set up in a dugout that was just a little worse than what most of them remembered from high school. Several of the guys tried to find ways to fit their equipment into the one wooden box in the dugout before giving up and throwing it on the foul territory grass, like the other team had. The stands couldn’t have held more than a few thousand people, but every seat was packed with screaming men and women in shirts one size too large, portraying either a hard partying cartoon character or beloved type of tractor or motorcycle. Beer was being sold out of a worn-down building, and nearly every adult hand in the stands was holding a clear plastic cup of the beverage.

“Fred,” Taylor barked to his starting pitcher. “Start warming up.”

“Where’s T.S.?” Hank asked, remembering the pitcher who got pulled from their first game after only pitching to one batter. Hank wasn’t sure he had seen the man since they got back for their one day “break” back in Waterloo/Cedar Falls.

“Worry about keeping that swing,” Taylor said. He patted Hank on the back. “T.S. never made the bus back. I’m making some calls. Don’t worry about it. You’re gettin’ hot.”

Hank jogged out onto the field to stretch, and he was happy to agree with his coach. He was getting hot. The swing he had just grown comfortable with before getting drummed out of the majors had returned quickly, as if it had missed him, too. Even the news of the organist’s death in the hospital, which Taylor had told him about right before he boarded the bus, hadn’t slowed his increasing joy. He couldn’t blame himself for bad luck, and he couldn’t count on his good luck to continue. All he could do was enjoy the magic while it happened.

John Todd dropped to the outfield grass beside him to stretch. He looked nearly as eager to get started as Hank felt, but with all of the youth in his eyes the eagerness looked almost animalistic.

“Think I’m gonna get the start tomorrow,” Todd said. “If they can’t find T.S.”

Hanks smiled and punched John’s shoulder in appreciation. Too bad for T.S., but you can’t blame someone for bad luck, after all.

“I think we need to get this one in before the kegs run out,” Hank said, looking at the locals waiting in line, still finishing up the beer they had just bought and wanting more. “The fences are about three feet tall, and there are lots of places people could run out onto the field. Don’t want to get hurt for stupid reasons.”

“There are a lot of ways we can get hurt today,” Jason Todd said. He pointed across the field to where the other team was warming up. Hank turned to see what he was talking about.

The Mason City Ugly Birds matched their name well. It didn’t take a glance at the scorecard (which looked to have been photocopied at some church or school office by a secretary who did a favor for the team) to tell most of the team were related to each other. They had the same broad faces, slightly stooped necks, and broad shoulders. Their eyebrows were thick and bushy and their teeth big and yellow.

Two of the familial Ugly Birds, clearly excited to be taking the field with former major leaguers, began wrestling in the outfield grass. They were clearly over the age of 20, and yet showed no shame or self-awareness as to the ridiculousness of men that age trying to pin each other’s shoulders to the grass while giggling in breathless, honking bleats. One of them, whose face seemed slightly more pinched than the others, began to get angry and started to punch the sides of his brother. When this didn’t work, he grabbed a bat and then the manager stepped in and yanked them apart. Again, it didn’t take a scorecard to tell the manager was also many of these men’s father.

“Watch out at second base,” Hank said. “They’re going to slide in out of control and hurt someone. Hopefully just themselves.”

Hank looked back and noticed one of the familial Ugly Birds looked to be half the size of his brothers, and was stretching ten feet away from his family. His glove looked brand new, and it almost shone in the sunlight as it lay on the grass. If the other boys had gotten massive arms and thick legs working on the farm, this boy appeared to have spent more time helping in the kitchen.

“I feel like we somehow found the Deep South of Iowa,” Hank commented.

“Check their dugout,” Todd said, and pointed.

Hank turned again, this time as part of a trunk stretch, and noticed there was a poorly-taxidermied turkey vulture tied to the chainlink fence near the dugout. It looked like an angry toddler had arranged this monstrosity with a dried, dead bird and his bare hands. Some clever joker on the Ugly Birds side had given the dead animal googly eyes, like it was a Muppet. It was embarassing and disturbing. Somehow, it was both at the same time.

“Looks like we’re playing hillbilly ball tonight,” Taylor commented.

(NEXT)