Fall of the Mighty

During dinner that evening, rumors of the pugilists’ punishment were circulating around the dining hall.

“No ball for a full month!” Congo whispered in excitement.

“They’ll miss the games next week,” George added. “They were two of our best.”

Congo looked at nothing in particular, just staring ahead, and sighed. “We’re sure to lose without them. Brother Mathias says the team from the Methodist school is one of the best in New York.”

George, who normally devoured his meal and bargained with other boys to share some of their food with him, had taken two small bites of bread. He hadn’t touched the potatoes, nor had he cut into the flat steak. He sat with his elbows on the table, his head rested in the cup of his hands. “A keystone and a pitcher,” he said softly, “and both good hitters.”

“I play keystone,” William said quietly. “I pitch.”

Congo and George exchanged glances as if saying, “You want to be the one to tell him?”

But William needed no explanation. He understood why neither of his two friends would consider him a possible replacement for the two pugilists. William was a year younger than Congo, two years younger than George, and he had yet to play on the Big Field with the older boys. Sure, he was one of the better players on the Little Field, but that was because he was playing with other children of his age and stature. George and Congo were special, the youngest members on St. Mary’s all-star team. George was only eleven years old, and Congo was ten, but each had special skills and was tall and strong, and they could hit far and throw fast.

“Look, kid,” George started.

But William held up his hand, signaling his friend to stop. “My fielding is golden,” William proclaimed. “A keystone rarely needs a strong arm, so what of my lack of strength?”

Again, George and Congo exchanged glances, but this time they looked surprised. William was unsure if he had shocked them with his confidence or if perhaps he was swaying their opinion.

“And I may not have the fastest straight ball,” William continued, “but my curve is the best on the Little Field. Even George can’t hit it. Use me one or two innings, between the hard-throwing southpaw and the hard-throwing righty, and I’d be sure to mess up the Methodist boys’ timing.”