by Fred Stewart

Work had chewed me up and spit me out, and I needed a quiet place to lie down.

“No book tonight Luke, I’m whipped. Hop into bed, and we’ll do two chapters tomorrow.”

“C’mon Dad. You don’t have to read, just tell me a story about when you were a kid.”

“Like from the days before they invented iPods and cars?”

“Yeah, maybe something with dinosaurs in it,” Luke answered with a toothy grin.

“Alright, if you promise to go straight to sleep, I’ll tell you about the time I saw a miracle.”

* * *

Crack! As soon as the ball left Donnie’s bat we knew the game was over. The swing was ferocious, and the ball carried well in the balmy June air. With two outs, the runners on second and third were moving on contact, and this would easily score the tying and winning runs.

Things couldn’t be worse. Not only were the Senators going to win the championship, but that arrogant jerk, Donnie Dolan, was going to be the hero. I despised Donnie, but my concern was for my older brother Billy. Donnie had a history of humiliating my brother, and it was a safe bet that a game-winning hit would fuel a new barrage of taunts.

Donnie had pasted the ball. It sailed high and deep toward the left-centerfield fence and the thick green briar beyond. Seven dejected members of the Red Sox just turned and stared in awe at the towering shot. An eighth Red Sox, pitcher Ricky Teague, slammed his glove into the pitching rubber and kicked clumps of brown clay towards the Senators' dugout. Only my brother, the centerfielder, was intent on making a futile chase for the ball.

When I first noticed Billy, he was already in a dead sprint, with his back to home plate, and his head down. He had always been blessed with exceptional speed, but that day he seemed to glide atop the emerald grass of the vast outfield. I wondered what my brother was thinking as I watched his red and white uniform streak towards a ball he could never reach. If I had to guess now, it would be the rapidly approaching fence, the ball, and Lizzie Appleton.

* * *

“Who is Lizzie Appleton? And did Uncle William crash into the fence?” Luke asked, as he edged himself up in bed.

* * *

Lizzie was Billy’s first love and they had been inseparable for almost a year. As time passed and Lizzie matured physically, however, Donnie Dolan and several of his tenth grade friends took notice. Billy was not weak or cowardly, but he was small for the ninth grade, and on a regular basis Donnie would harass him. “Hey Billy, is it true that your dad croaked with no insurance, and now your mom cleans the school’s toilets?”

In the end, the embarrassment and peer pressure were too much for Lizzie. On an icy December morning, just before school, she called Billy and told him that her parents would no longer allow her to date. A few weeks later, she was wearing Donnie Dolan’s varsity baseball jacket at school. Now, just as the pain and embarrassment had begun to subside, those old wounds were going to be ripped open.

* * *

In the stands, a hundred frenzied Senator’s fans, Lizzie amongst them, were screaming and jumping, with arms raised towards the sky. An equal number of Red Sox fans sat silently, sharing the moribund look of inevitable defeat. But, while 230 fans, coaches, and players, had accepted the game’s outcome, Billy had not.

If the ball hadn’t been lifted so high, he would never have gotten close. Billy had measured the trajectory and direction of the ball upon contact, and rather than concede a split-second to look back, he trusted his judgment as to where it would fall. He had sprinted seventy feet towards the fence before most of the crowd even noticed him. Even then, no one gave him a chance to make a play.

When my brother got to within ten feet of the fence, he finally stole a glance back over his left shoulder. That’s when I first sensed the possibility of something extraordinary.

His eyes flashed against the bright midday sun, and he quickly located the plummeting white ball against the cloudless blue sky. Billy took one final stride, veering slightly to his left, and launched himself into the air towards the fence. I stared, transfixed, as he propelled himself onto a vertical plane four feet above the ground. Billy sailed through the air, facing downward, and then twisted his head back to relocate the rapidly descending ball, which now angled a few excruciating feet beyond his airborne body. He stretched out his left hand as far as it would reach, and then for further extension, used his fingertips to push the glove partially off his hand.