Tim Sandlin - Skipped Parts

I remember being way out in right field and my nose hurt. Hurt like king-hell, as if my sinuses were full of chlorine. Now I know that when anyone moves from the South to Wyoming, their nose always hurts like king-hell for two weeks. Has something to do with the humidity, I guess, or the altitude.

But at the time, standing out there in right field pretending to spit in my glove so I could hide my right hand as it pinched my nostrils, I thought Lydia and I were the first Southerners ever lost in Wyoming. I also thought the nose pain meant I had leukemia and would die soon.

Sam, Sam, can you hear me?

Sams eyes fluttered in weak recognition of his grandfathers presence.

Sam, Im so sorry youre dying of leukemia, Im sorry I shipped you and your mom out to the Wilderness when you needed to be home the most.

Sam tried to raise his hand. It was a noble effort.

Sam, this is your grandfather, can you forgive me before you die?

The poor boys lips worked, he made the supreme effort, but no words of forgiveness would escape his mouth. Slowly, painfully, he smiled.

***

Back then I often had recurring daydreams of people being sorry when I died.

Out in right field, I was keenly aware that people were watching me. Where they watched from, I wasnt certain, but I always know when Im being watched. It makes my butt itch. I have a feeling this deal goes back to the second grade when Lydia told me not to scratch in public because someone was always watching. Lydias the kind of mother who would do that to a kid.

Since I couldnt scratch where it itched and my nose hurt like king-hell, I stood out there in right field kind of twitching. I hunched my right shoulder up to rub my ear, then blinked my eyes hard, trying to scratch my sinuses from the inside. I raised up on my toes and tensed my butt cheeks. That didnt help at all, made me feel more watched.

The trouble, of course, was social alienation. Id always played baseball with gas company conduits behind third base and the Caspar Callahan Carbon Paper plant twenty yards off the first-base foul pole. Now, nothing lay behind third base, only the bare valley floor stretching forever to a line of green along a river, then another forever before the Tetons jumped up two dimensional in the background.

The openness got me. There are no treeless spots in North Carolinaunless someones fought like king-hell to make them that way. Here, I could see a tree up by the school and a few scraggly little willows wed call weeds marked the home run fence behind me, but other than thatzip. Zappo. Nothing. I was lost in limbo where the unbaptized babies go when they die.

Off the first-base line was almost as bad. A bunch of rural, shrieking types played pathetic volleyball. They all had their hands over their heads like apes. I could see pit stains from thirty yards. If the wind changed, Id be in big trouble.

The batter swung wide and missed by a foot. He was tall and gangly. One thing I had to admit about Wyoming, even in the midst of my bad attitude, the kids might be ugly but hardly any of them were fat. Maybe a girl or two, and they were more muscled broad than fat. I spit in my glove again. Somewhere along the line Id decided spit was good for leather and not to be wasted.

The kid batter swung again and again missed by a mile.

Sam, youve only been gone from Greensboro a short time, yet youve returned with the demeanor of a cowboy.

Sam tipped his wide-brimmed hat. Yup.

You seem so much taller and more enigmatic.

Yup.

Caspar had banished us beforethats what he did when Lydia pulled one of her classic boners. But that was to Maine or Georgia Sea Island and summertime. This was a mockery. Mars. The inside of a vacuum cleaner bag.

I heard laughter. They werent just watching, they were laughing at me. I chose to take the high road of the sports hero and ignore them.

The night beforeour first night in hell as she called it Lydia had told me about school. Sam, honey bunny. The honey-bunny stuff was a nasty habit. Sam, honey bunny, youre at the worst age possible to be starting a new school. You can handle it one of two ways. You can wallow in superiority, tell yourself everyones a stupid yahoo but you.

Yahoo, I said.

Or you can be nervous as heck that you wont fit in and no one will like you and you can suck up like a puppy dog.

Neither way sounds fun, I said.

I advise superiority. It has always stood me well. This conversation took place before 10:30.