“You can dance?” Alan asked.
“We can!” Ed said.
“We learned in gym,” Greg said, with the softest, proudest voice, deep within them.
“Well,” Alan said. He didn’t know what to say. High school. Dancing. Invited to parties. No one had invited him to parties when he’d graduated from elementary school, and he’d been too busy with the little ones to go in any event. He felt a little jealous, but mostly proud. “Want a milkshake?” he asked, mentally totting up the cash in his pocket and thinking that he should probably send Brad to dicker with the assayer again soon.
“No, thank you,” Ed said. “We’re watching our weight.”
Alan laughed, then saw they weren’t joking and tried to turn it into a cough, but it was too late. Their shy, chocolate smile turned into a rubber-lipped pout.
The game started bang on time at six p.m., just as the sun was setting. The diamond lights flicked on with an audible click and made a spot of glare that cast out the twilight.
Benny was already on the mound, he’d been warming up with the catcher, tossing them in fast and exuberant and confident and controlled. He looked good on the mound. The ump called the start, and the batter stepped up to the plate, and Benny struck him out in three pitches, and the little ones went nuts, cheering their brother on along with the other fans in the bleachers, a crowd as big as any you’d ever see outside of school, thirty or forty people.
The second batter stepped up and Benny pitched a strike, another strike, and then a wild pitch that nearly beaned the batter in the head. The catcher cocked his mask quizzically, and Benny kicked the dirt and windmilled his arm a little and shook his head.