Hello Loved Ones Read Online Free Page B

feel bad about getting it. Even if she was a tomboy, that would do, but no, Nell was the most prissy sister a boy could be cursed with.
    Lenny grabbed the bat from his father and set it on his shoulder. Before he could take a swing, Dad snatched it away.
    “No, like this.” He positioned Lenny’s hand. “Feel that? That’s craftsmanship. These bats have been around since 1884. The first one was made from a piece of white ash for Pete Browning. Folks called him the Old Gladiator.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it sounded good, I suppose.”
    Lenny stepped away from him, eager to let her fly. Dad wouldn’t let go.
    “Pay attention. You’re going to be the owner of a Louisville Slugger, there are a few things you need to know. See, Pete busted his bat into splinters during a Louisville Eclipse game. There was a young fella named Bud Hillerich in the stands, and he offered to carve Pete a new one. Next day, Browning went three-for-three with the new bat. That was the very first Louisville Slugger.”
    “Let’s go over to the park and hit some pop-ups.”
    “Lenny, what did I just tell you?”
    “You said that Pete fella was glad he ate.” Lenny was being silly on purpose, to make his dad laugh. It didn’t work.
    “ Gladiator. That’s like a soldier. Now how many times have I told you, baseball is nothing to joke about. That’s our national past time. What else is it?”
    “Greatest game ever created.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Are we gonna play?”
    “In a minute. I’m trying to teach you something here. This is no ordinary bat. Babe Ruth used a Slugger to hit 60 home runs in ‘27. That’s a world record.”
    “That’s nothing,” Lenny said, grinning. “I’ll be hitting a hundred thousand home runs. In one game, too. Give it here.”
    “Repeat what I just told you.”
    “Babe Ruth used a Slugger.”
    “How many home runs did he hit with it?”
    “A lot.”
    “Sixty. Say it. Sixty.”
    Lenny said it.
    “What year was it?”
    “1927.”
    “No, 1925. You’ve got to learn to listen, boy.”
    “I did listen. You said 1927.” He might be deaf in one ear, but he knew how to listen. And he always made sure he kept his good ear toward his dad.
    Dad shook his head. “I did not say 1927. Now get over there and give it a few swings.” He pushed Lenny across the grass. “I’ll go get the ball.” He turned toward the house, then stopped. “Where is it?”
    “Under my bed. In the box.”
    Dad disappeared inside and Lenny examined the bat. The pale wood was shiny and smooth, soft to his touch. He put his nose to it and breathed in deep. It smelled of dug-outs. He choked up on it.
    “Hurry Dad!” Lenny yelled, hoping that after all that talk his dad hadn’t lost interest. He was relieved when Dad came out with the ball in his hand. He’d taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
    “Now that model you’ve got there,” Dad said, tossing the ball in the air, “that’s the same kind Mickey Mantle used to smash one out of Griffin Stadium. What do you think about that?”
    Lenny’s hands felt electric on the bat. “Griffin Stadium is for babies,” he said. “I’ll take the bus to Chicago and hit one out of Wrigley Field. It’ll fly so far it’ll land in Lake Michigan.” He hunched over, assuming his stance.
    Dad laughed. “Lake Michigan? Why not the Atlantic? You oughta aim higher son.”
    A quick bitter laugh flew out the window above the kitchen sink. “You’re a fine one to talk,” Mom called. Her face was a flat pale circle behind the shadow of the screen. Dishes clinked faintly under the sound of running water.
    “Was I talking to you?” Dad said. He did a few wind-ups.
    The water stopped. Mom’s voice came back louder, “Why don’t you aim toward some dinner for your children? We’ve been out of groceries for a week.”
    Dad raised his voice too. “Don’t start with me. Lenny and I are playing baseball.”
    “Throw it Dad!” Lenny wished his mother would