too. Now the count is full: three balls and two strikes. The pressure is on. The pitcher has to throw a strike, and the batter has to hit it.
“Come on, pitcher,” I say. “You can do it. Easy out, easy out.”
The pitcher winds up and throws. The batter swings and —
Crack!
Even without Sam grinning and yee-hawing all over the living room, I recognize that sound. I slouch back on the couch and watch the ball sail over the centre field fence. I guess it wasn’t such an easy out after all.
Enjoying his moment in the sun, the batter trots leisurely around the bases. As he touches home plate, he pauses, points skyward again, and kisses the cross hanging from his neck. Then he carries on to the dugout where his teammates happily mob him.
“Why do guys do that?” I say.
“What?” Sam asks. “Congratulate their teammate? Why wouldn’t they? He just put a run on the scoreboard.”
I shake my head. “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about how players cross themselves when they come to bat, and then if they get a home run, they point to the sky like it’s heaven. I’ve seen lots of batters do it. It’s as if they’re telling God thanks, like He made the home run happen.”
Sam’s moustache trembles, a sure sign that he’s laughing on the inside but doesn’t want to go public with it. Obviously, he finds something I’ve said funny.
“I’m serious,” I say indignantly.
His moustache settles down. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I wasn’t really laughing at you.” And then before I can point out that he most certainly was, he says, “Are you religious?”
I don’t answer right away. I need to think first. “Not particularly,” I finally reply. “I don’t know. I don’t really think about it much. I was christened when I was a baby, and I believe there’s a God, but I don’t go to church — except for Mom’s weddings.”
He nods and smiles, but his eyes aren’t in it. I can tell he’s just being polite, and I decide I liked it better when he was laughing at me.
“Most folks are believers,” he says. “In fact, about eight out of every ten people follow one religion or another. That doesn’t just mean going to church either; it’s a daily spiritual relationship with whichever god they believe in.
“The baseball players you’re talking about are a prime example. They believe God guides them. They believe they have God to thank for their athletic ability and how they use it. So every time they step up to that plate, they believe God is right there with them. When they cross themselves before an at-bat, they are praying to God to help them do their best.
“So when they hit a home run — yeah, you’re absolutely right — they are acknowledging God’s part in it.”
“Okay,” I frown, “but players on all the teams do that. Every player thinks God’s on his side, but how can He be if He’s helping everybody? He doesn’t sound like a very good fan to me. Where’s the loyalty?”
Sam’s hearty guffaws fill the tiny living room. “You should talk! You cheer for anybody.”
“Not just anybody,” I protest. “Only the teams you’re against. And I certainly don’t change sides in the middle of a game like God does.”
Sam stops laughing. “God does help all the teams a little, but He definitely has a favourite.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “And who’s that?”
“The New York Yankees.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Good one, Sam.”
“No, really. It’s true.” I have to give him credit. He looks totally serious.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What makes you think God is a Yankees fan?”
“Think about it,” he says. “In the history of baseball, the Yankees have taken the American League championship forty times. That’s way more pennants than anybody else. Even more important, they’ve been World Series champs twenty-seven times. No other team even comes close to that. What more proof do you need? God might help other teams out from time to time, but He is definitely a Yankee.”
How can I argue with that kind of logic? It’s so crazy, it makes sense. So I just nod and smile and say, “Right. Okay, then. Thanks for clearing that up.”
Sam smiles back. “My pleasure.”
We go back to watching the game, but despite my enthusiastic cheering, Texas loses, and, of course, Sam can’t resist gloating. “Looks like God was rooting for the Orioles today. Better luck next time, Dani. Let’s go make supper.”
I follow him to the kitchen and start pulling out the makings of a salad. But my mind is still in the living room, thinking about our earlier conversation.
“Sam?”
“Mmm,” he murmurs, not bothering to look up from the potato he’s peeling.
“When we were watching the game, you asked me if I was religious,” I say. “What about you? Are you religious? Do you believe in God?”
He stops peeling the potato and looks off into space. “Do I believe in God?” He slowly shakes his head. “No. No, Dani, I can’t say that I do.” There’s a thoughtful pause before he adds, “But there are definitely times I wish I did. And that’s the truth.”
Chapter Ten
Like a bucking bronco, Lizzie jumps and jerks across the field, doing her best to throw Sam and me through the windshield. I hang onto the steering wheel for dear life while my feet tap dance on the clutch and gas. Lizzie roars a protest, then chokes and stutters — over and over again, bucking the whole time. I panic and jam both feet on the brake. She lurches forward one last time before stalling out with a weary rattle.
For a few seconds, Sam and I don’t move. We want to be sure Lizzie has really stopped. Finally, Sam loosens his grip on the dashboard and leans back against the seat. I want to do the same thing, but my hands are fused to the steering wheel, so I just sit there — stiff as a board — staring out at the field.
“I said let the clutch out slowly and give her a little gas.” I expect Sam to be yelling, but his voice is as calm as always.
“That’s what I was trying to do,” I tell him. “I don’t know what happened.”
“The same thing that happens to everybody the first time they drive a standard transmission,” he says. “It’s something you have to develop a feel for. C’mon. Let’s try it again.”
I frown. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” At lunchtime, when Sam had suggested I learn to drive Lizzie, I was all for it, but now I’m not so sure. “What if I don’t get the hang of it? Lizzie’s going to hate me. She’ll probably hate you too for putting her through this.” Now it’s not just Sam who talks like Lizzie is a person; he’s got me doing it too.
He
