July, 1884 

The boy hustled along the thin bare trail between chest high rows of corn, leaving blots of spattered blood behind him, a deep red darkening the cracked ground. He had a long way to go. Sparrows flushed before him, a young deer spooked and flitted away, but he didn’t notice, because he was watching his left hand fail at stanching the steady flow of blood from his right. A warm, sticky mess spread throughout his clothes, slowly cooling in the wind of his sprint.

The boy could run fast, but not nearly as fast as he could throw. He feared more than anything that this reality might change. In the front pocket of his denim overalls was the severed pointer finger of his right hand, the finger that pressed into the blood red seams of a baseball when he hurled it towards the plate from his favorite spot in all of Indiana: the pitcher’s mound.

The boy’s uncle came out from the barn and saw the boy covered in blood, now stumbling, now on his knees at the edge of the corn. He rushed over.

The boy took from his pocket what was left of his finger and held it up for his Uncle to see.

It looked pale and lonely separated from the others.

 

May, 1898 

The scout rustled through a bag of peanuts, picked one, and cracked its shell between his teeth. He sat next to the coach on a wood slat bench overlooking the ball field. There were no stands, though a few onlookers gathered here and there along the sidelines, legs crossed on blankets spread over the ground. What was left of an abandoned coal mining operation stood limp and bleached down the right field line. The rest was blue skies and windblown grass.

The home team took the field, chattering. They wore pinstripes, with the exception of the pitcher, who had on stained gray coveralls.

That’s him, said the coach.

Where’s his uniform? asked the scout.

He just got off the night shift over at the Jed Beatty mine.

That better not end up an excuse for his play. Do you know what I went through to get way the hell out here?

Trust me.

I’m here, said the scout. That’s me trusting you. And I’ve got your finder’s fee in my wallet. Again, trust. But he’d better be ready. Otherwise, you’ll be the one writing me a check.

I told you he’s ready, said the coach.

If I had a nickel for how many times I’ve heard that.

Don’t forget: I was up in the Bigs for more than just a cup of coffee. Longer than you.

All right, all right. I’m here, said the scout.

You’ll be thanking me.

At home plate, the umpire exchanged a few words with the catcher, who removed his mask and hollered out onto the field, balls in.

So what’s this you tell me about his paw? asked the scout.

I’ll have him show you after the game, said the coach.

What’d he, break a finger?

Worse. Lost a couple in some farming accident.

So how does he grip the ball?

Like a hawk. You’ll see. His curve’s the best I’ve seen.

The umpire yelled play ball. The batter stepped to the plate and held the bat against his shoulder. The pitcher kicked his knee high into the air and fell towards home plate, his arm trailing behind then releasing like a whip from his shoulder. The ball flew high and hard. But mere feet before it’s arrival, it dipped suddenly towards the ground, like a peregrine to a vole.

The batter looked back at the catcher and shook his head in disbelief.

Christ almighty, said the scout.

Oh ye of little faith, said the coach.

 

October, 1909 

The crowd of tens of thousands in the grandstands surrounding the pitcher cracked and feathered and blinked and shook. If he squinted he could almost imagine they were the rolling hills of wheat and grass and corn of his childhood. Almost.

Cripple, yelled someone.

When the pitcher was alone in his hotel room, his hand seemed like nothing. It had been this way now for longer than it hadn’t. He didn’t think about it much. That was everyone else’s job.

Gimp, yelled another. Only this time it wasn’t from the stands. It came from the player strolling up to the batters box–a skinny, bow-legged man with his hat askew and chips on his shoulders, chin, forehead, arms, and legs. Even his pants seem to glare.

The pitcher shifted the ball in his glove. Smooth against the pads of his palm he felt round leather valleys interrupted by stitched mountain passes. Then flared an itch in the air above his missing digits. The urge to scratch never left, either.

The batter clacked his bat against his sharpened spikes. If you send me that gimpy curve, I’m going to send it right back up your ass.

The catcher thrust two fingers down between his legs.

You’re a freak. Go back to the circus.

The pitcher staunched a smile before it could spread across his face. Today, his arm felt like a god, his fingers a trident. Bats would slice through air and nothing else.

 

September, 1941 

­­­The old pitcher hobbled from the service station toward a shiny, burgundy Buick coupe with New Jersey plates.

Fill her up, said the driver, a man his forties. In the passenger seat sat his wife, in the back his son.

Sure thing, said the old pitcher.

The mother and father stepped out of the car and stretched and walked past the old pitcher toward the service station, presumably to use the restroom. The son got out, too, but stayed near the car, leaned up against the dash. He wore a Dodgers cap.

The old pitcher felt the boy watching him unscrew the gas cap and plug in the spigot.

Hey ­mister, does that hurt? he asked, nodding at the hand.

What, this? He held it up for him to see. There was a small band of lighter skin around the finger upon which a World Series ring used to rest before it ended up in hock.

The boy averted his eyes.

The old pitcher chuckled and said, No, it doesn’t hurt much, not anymore. Only sometimes, when a storm’s coming.

The boy didn’t reply. He clasped his hands behind his back and circled around the pump a few times, kicking stones.

The numbers on the pump spun. The old pitcher began whistling a tune as the tank filled. He could tell the boy wanted to know more but didn’t feel right asking.

A bell rang in the service station; the boy’s parents emerged and began walking back to the car.

How did it happen, said the boy in a rush.

The old pitcher smiled. Oh, this and that. Some people just get lucky.

The boy furrowed his eyebrows and adjusted his ball cap.

The old pitcher winked at him. He continued filling up the sedan, squeezing tight

the pressure on the gas pump.  And as he squeezed, for a brief flicker of a moment, the tips of his three remaining fingers remembered pressing against a baseball, and remembered the promise and the thrill of having blood red seams beneath them. A subtle ache yearned in their joints and spread throughout the body of the old pitcher.

He sighed.

And, for a moment, the spectral presence of the finger he’d lost also returned, an old friend, a sharp tearing pain, whose jealousy even a lifetime later the old pitcher could still feel.