Sam flicked his wrist and watched the stone’s path across the water. It skipped five times and winked out in a blind pocket of sunlight.
“Did you see that?” He spun around, but at first it felt like he’d been pulled in the water.
The world swam before him in wavering panels of bright and dark. He shielded his eyes to cut the glare and saw Tommy up the riverbank, curved into a cottonwood as easily as the roots surrounding him. Sam could see he hadn’t been watching; the faded yellow Pirates cap was tugged low, obscuring his face. Sam yelled, “That one skipped seven times! Did you see it?”
Tommy didn’t answer. Sam wondered if he’d fallen asleep, or couldn’t hear over the tinny static of the transistor radio. It was broadcasting Game 7 of the World Series between Pittsburgh and the Yankees; the boys had cut class and hiked up here to listen.
Sam brushed the sand from his trousers and jogged up the slope, shuffling his feet to rustle leaves. As he approached, Tommy lifted his hand, said, “Game’s back.” Sam slowed and sat quietly on the grass.
He knew Pittsburgh didn’t have a chance, but he’d never admit that to Tommy. Tommy swore unflinching loyalty to the National League and the Pirates especially. Baseball was his religion. Sam had favored the Pirates too, of course he had, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. After the second shutout by Whitey Ford, he’d secretly abandoned his prayers for Pittsburgh and cast his allegiance with the team his father claimed was unbeatable.
“Might as well root for the winners, Sammy,” his father had said. “Yankees already won. Even the umpires are playing favorites. Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and Yogi Berra batting against you? Ain’t got a prayer. Series was over ‘fore it started.”
The boys listened as the Yankees wiped out an early lead by the Pirates. When Tony Kubek drew a base on balls, Sam said, “Those umps are playing favorites, like my old man said. Announcer called that last pitch outside.”
Tommy poked his hat up and looked at Sam. “Your dad doesn’t think we’ll win.”
“He just said the umps are playing favorites.”
“I’ll bet he’s rooting for the Yankees.”
Sam shrugged. “Well, I’m not. Those guys are pussies.”
Tommy pulled his hat back down. “We’ll win. And it won’t be some miracle.”
The afternoon sun was mellowing. They didn’t say anything for a while. On the radio, Pittsburgh scored, but the Yankees still led 7-6. Sam said, “He’s just a realist, you know?”
“You mean he don’t believe in nothin.”
Sam jumped up and headed back towards the river. He kneeled and sifted through the silt, choosing another smooth flat stone. He stood and imagined he was Vernon Law winding up for a fastball. He pitched the stone believing it could skip across the whole damned river because it was October and the World Series and he wanted to believe in everything.