How to Keep Score
How to Keep Score
By Anabelle Mahoney
You write down the players’ names on your scoresheet, but really, Riley’s name is the only one that matters. K means the first kid struck out swinging, a backward K means the second kid struck out looking, and 2B means Riley got a double and you can let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You cheer louder than any other sisters do for their brothers. He sees you in the stands and smiles. He always plays the rest of the game relaxed after his first hit. F8: the fourth batter flies out to centerfield, the third out. Riley and his team jog to the dugout to switch sides, and your father still isn’t here.
Riley is the first one back on the field, first baseman’s mitt in hand. He waits for the others to throw the ball around and warm up. You watch as he bends to scoop up a ground ball and tosses it to a teammate in one fluid motion; he’s a lefty, and you think the righties never look quite at ease at first base, but Riley’s so comfortable there that it makes you smile. You could score the hits of the opposing team, you could, but you don’t. You watch your brother instead. Behind him, a yellow fence circles the park. You scan the outfield and hope your father will be here soon. You hope he’ll be able to see Riley do well. He’ll probably be here later, after he’s done working at the family’s pizza place that he and your mom started when she was still alive.
A chatty mother pulls you back to the game when she asks another mother what the score is. She answers they’re winning 7-4 when it’s 5-3 and you wonder where she got those imagined runs from. Just then, the pitcher throws the ball to Riley. He picks off a kid sliding back into first. You can see the tag before the umpire does. At the kid’s feet—great placement. The umpire calls him out. You cheer. The two mothers near you swivel their heads around to see what they missed. You remember your father telling Riley to always lay down the tag at the player’s feet. Too high, at the hips, and the player would already have touched the base. That makes the last out of the inning. Some of the players run over to Riley, slapping him on the back. You turn to the sheet. Since you aren’t scoring the other team, you decide to make a note of this play at the bottom. You settle on writing CS 1-3 to describe it.
Your brother is having a great game, you’ve scored two more hits (1B, 2B), and he’s at bat again when your father arrives. He doesn’t come over to the stands; instead, he stays behind the fence in the outfield, out of Riley’s view, to watch. Riley works the count to 3-2. The next pitch is outside, and Riley doesn’t swing. The umpire calls it a strike. Riley hates the outside pitch. You write the backward K that ends the game.
Your father walks over, and you greet him with the scoresheet, knowing what he’s going to say. He jokes that he’s a jinx, that he can only read about Riley’s hits instead of seeing them. He says he shouldn’t have come, because “look how much better he does when I’m not here.” He is joking, but his voice falters. This isn’t the first time he’s missed important moments: your science fair presentation, Riley’s piano recital, your lead role in the school play (Sandy in Grease). As Riley starts walking over to meet you, he sees your father and smiles. Your father’s answering smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and you wish more than anything that you could say something heartfelt to comfort him, but there’s nothing to say, nothing that’s not already written down.
Anabelle Mahoney is an affiliated faculty member in Emerson College’s Writing, Literature, and Publishing department, where she also earned an MFA in creative writing. Her work has previously appeared in Chautauqua Journal and Pink Panther Magazine.
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