game was an exhibition game against the Traveling Ladies, a touring
pro club, to promote war bonds.
“Now how are women gonna play this g-g-g-game,” Al said, imi-
tating Porky Pig, “when among the l-l-l-lot of them they haven’t got a
single b-b-b-b—”
“Shut up, Al,” said Sal.
Sal and Al had come with Prosper. The park was packed, and all
the lower bleachers full. Sal and Al liked to get a seat in the lowest row
so they didn’t have to stand on their seats like nine-year-olds just to
see. But not today. The steps were okay for climbing, and they went
high up, passing as they went Bunce, Connie, and their son, primly in
a row, Bunce for once without his cap. Prosper made himself seem too
preoccupied with going upward to acknowledge her or him or them,
and they looked out at the warm-ups on the field.
The Traveling Ladies were show-offs, in their striped schoolgirl
skirts and knee-high socks, hats like Gay ’90s ballplayers with a fuzzy
button on the top; but they played hard. They played hard and made it
262 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
look easy, making fancy catches for no reason, setting up nick-of-time
plays on purpose—you could catch them at it if you watched closely.
Whenever they cleared the bases they tossed the ball round the horn
with a little individual spin or jump or bend for each of the infielders,
the third baseman always pretending not to notice and waving to the
crowd up until the last moment, when she turned and snagged the ball
backhand and laughed. When they got well ahead they’d sometimes
pretend to be checking their makeup in little hand mirrors or exchang-
ing gossip with the first base coach and let a ball go by them and a
runner make a base she shouldn’t have—as though they were acting in
a movie about girl baseball players as much as actually being them.
The crowd loved it.
But Vi and the Moths played hard too, a little grim in the face of all
the funning, but Vi as good as anything the Ladies could show, her
fiery fastball taking their best sticks by surprise. Most softball pitchers
change their stance when they change their pitch—this way for a fast-
ball, that way for a slider—but Dad had taught Vi to stand always the
same, give nothing away, her body preternaturally still just before she
wound up and fired. And unlike most pitchers who just stoop a bit
when they throw, as though they were pitching horseshoes, Vi’s knuck-
les nearly scraped the ground, the big pill floating and dropping trick-
ily or slamming into the catcher’s glove.
Prosper’s difficulty in ballparks was that he missed most of the
exciting plays, when all around him the spectators rose to their feet to
see the ball sail over the fence or the fielder make the catch, or just in
spontaneous delight or astonishment or outrage. He couldn’t get up
fast enough and would finally be standing by the time everybody else
had cooled off and sat down again. He liked a so-so game. This wasn’t
that. This night he also wanted a clear sight of Connie and Bunce and
the boy with the unfortunate name, just down there between the heads
and hats. What he saw, as an inconclusive inning was drawing to an
end, was a blond woman, one he knew and had himself swapped wise-
cracks with, slip into their row and seat herself beside Bunce. Connie
on his other side. It seemed to Prosper that the blonde—was her name
Frances?—actually leaned around Bunce to greet Connie, which
seemed to take a lot of crust. Prosper couldn’t help but feel for Bunce in
between them.
F O U R F R E E D O M S / 263
Just then, the Ladies’ right fielder, with a three-and-two count on
her, backed off a high inside pitch, and then came running out at Vi, bat
in hand, yelling that she’d been aimed at; then she turned on the umpire
who called after her, denouncing him in fury as the spectators variously
booed and cheered. The ump threatened to toss her out of the game. She
stuck out her tongue at him, a dame after all, and at that the ump did
order her out, or tried to—the Ladies instantly came off the bench in a
crowd, yelling and gesturing; when they made for Vi on the mound, the
Moths rushed the infield. A fine rhubarb, everyone pushing and shoving
and those girlie skirts flying while the men rose and roared. It was hard
not to believe they’d got into it on purpose just for the fun of it; cer-
tainly Vi, alone and superb on the mound, chewing bubble gum and
waiting for the dust to settle, seemed to think so.
Prosper had seen nothing much but backs and behinds, but when the
view cleared again he saw in some alarm that Connie, Adolph in tow,
was mounting the steps toward where he sat, and even from that dis-
tance Prosper could see grim resolve in her face, or maybe fury. By the
time she reached his pew she was smiling theatrically, not for his sake
he knew, and indicated she’d like the seat next to him, yes that one, if
Sal would scoot down a bit, yes thanks, Prosper turned his knees out-
ward so she and Adolph could work their way past him. She sat. She
still said nothing, only looked on him with a blind beatific gaze.
“Hi there,” he said.
She seemed not to notice that Adolph was tugging her arm, trying
to be released from her ferocious grip.
Play resumed, the apologetic Lady fielder kept in the game, Vi
scrunching her shoulders, gloving the ball, warming up.
“So,” Connie said icily. “Who are you rooting for?”
“Well, the Moths,” said Prosper. “Of course.”
“Well, sure.”
“But the Ladies are, well.”
“Yes, they sure are. They sure know their stuff.” The smile
unchanged, as though it was going to last forever.
He thought it would be best to face front, not engage in eye-play, no
matter how innocent. His pose was that she’d happened to desire to
change her seat, for reasons he couldn’t be expected to know, and hap-
pened to choose the one next to him, ditto. How much of this his face
264 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
and body expressed to distant onlookers he couldn’t be sure. “Though
actually, I guess,” he said to the air. “I guess I’d hope they both could
win.”
“Well that’s dumb,” she said. “They can’t both.”
“I know.”
“It’s stupid.”
He chanced a glance in her direction. The smile was gone. “Maybe
better say,” he said, “I don’t want either of them to lose.”
Vi gave up a big hit then, and once again Prosper lost sight of the
field, though Connie was up as fast as anyone. When they sat, Bunce
and Francine—that was her name—down the bleachers were revealed,
and it was apparent her arm was in his, and just then she laid her head
on his shoulder. At that, Bunce’s head swiveled a bit to the rear, as
though tempted to look back up toward Connie, then changed its mind
and swiveled back.
“God damn it,” said Connie.
“Hey,” Prosper said softly. “It’s okay.” But Connie had got up again,
and lifted unsurprised Adolph to her hip, and begun pushing out of the
row. Prosper held up a hand to forestall her, gathering his crutches and
preparing to stand, as there was no way she could climb over him with-
out everybody losing their dignity, which he thought mattered.
“Now listen, Connie, you’re not, you’re not gonna . . .”
“I’m just getting out of here. I’m sorry.”
“Well hold your horses.” He wasn’t sure she wasn’t going to go
down and black his eye, or hers, kid or no kid, and he had a feeling