Painting the Black Read Online Free Page B

came back into the infield where I was waiting. He picked up his glove, I picked up the catcher’s mitt, and we started playing catch.
    â€œYou want to put that mask on and get behind the plate?” he said after about five minutes.
    â€œYou bet,” I answered, crouching down and pulling the catcher’s mask over my face for the first time.
    That morning he played around with his grip, sometimes throwing with his two fingers split wide, sometimes with three fingers on the ball, sometimes with his fingers across the seams. The different grips made the ball move differently. The splitter dropped down, the three-fingered job tailed in. About every fifth pitch was just pure heat, but even his fastball always moved a little. Catching Josh was like taking a ride at an amusement park—scary, but fun. The ball was there, and then it wasn’t, dipping down and either in or away.
    I’d always thought that being a catcher had to be the most boring position to play. Those two days taught me otherwise. There was nothing boring about catching Josh Daniels. When a hard ball is coming at you fast, and when it’s dancing, too, every single nerve in your body is alert and ready. Your eyes are wide open, and the adrenaline is pumping. It’s not a feeling you want to give up, any more than you want to get off a roller coaster. And Josh wasn’t even close to pushing his limits. I knew he had more. Whatever more he had, I wanted to see it. I wanted to catch it. I’d have caught him forever.
    Too soon he stopped. “That’s enough,” he said.
    â€œYou sure? I’m not tired.”
    He was tempted, but finally shook his head. “No, I don’t want to hurt my arm, and you should go easy on that ankle.”
    We walked over to the drinking fountain. I splashed water on my neck and face, then took a good long drink. Suddenly I was on empty. I dropped to the grass. Josh plopped down next to me, then leaned back so the sun was on his face. We sat for a while, neither of us talking. Then he sat up.
    â€œMy old man wants to put in new copper pipes to the kitchen and bathroom. I’ve got to help him.”
    â€œThat sounds like fun.”
    He smiled sourly. “Yeah. Right. But how about tomorrow morning? You want to do this again?”
    â€œSure, sounds great.” Then I remembered. “Wait a second,” I said. “I can’t. Tomorrow is Sunday. I go hiking with my father on Sundays.”
    â€œWhat about the afternoon?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “If we’re back in time.”

7
    Before I went to bed that night I set my alarm for five-thirty. Just thinking about getting up that early put me in a foul mood. But even if we were leaving at eight-thirty, I wouldn’t have wanted to go.
    The strange thing is that for years I’d looked forward to those Sunday hikes with my father. I couldn’t play basketball or football or baseball, but I could walk. The Issaquah Alps, Cedar River, Mount St. Helens—we hiked everywhere. On Monday I had something on the other guys at school. “I hiked to Rattlesnake Lake,” I’d say, and for a few minutes they’d be jealous of me.
    But for the last year or so, the hikes have become a chore, something I do for him. The strange thing is I’m certain that in the beginning—when my ankle was so tight that every step was slow—our hikes were something he did for me.
    It seemed as if I’d barely fallen asleep that night when my light went on. “Wake up, Ryan.”
    â€œWhat?” I said, looking at my clock. Five-ten.
    â€œCougar Mountain,” he answered. “Remember, we’re hiking Far Country Creek today.”
    I groaned. “I thought we said five-thirty.”
    â€œWe did, but I want to get going before the trail gets crowded.”
    I covered my head with my pillow. What I wanted to do was to sleep until nine or so and then pound on Josh’s door and