The Kids of the Woods

Ralph first laid eyes on the two boys when he was refilling the team’s Gatorade jug. They emerged from the jungle of pines with their chiseled walking sticks and nothing more except the clothes that hung off their bony bodies. Ralph, who was known as Ralphie to every organism in town, didn’t know the boys, which was strange since he had been playing at Morley Riggs Field for seven years. The village of Ocqueoc was small. Everyone knew everyone.

Maybe they were greenhorns or had just reemerged to civilization after years of living feral.

Hey, Junior, do you know those boys out there?

They were now far beyond the yellow pole that marked the foul zone. Junior chomped his Big League Chew and squinted into the treeline. He wiped off the lenses of his thick-black specs for a second look.

They don’t go to Ocqueoc.

                                       Positive?

                                                      Certain.

                                                       Even with that 80-20 vision of yours?

                                                                                         Shuttup, Ralphie!

A playful push sent Ralphie back into his post at mid-right bench. It was a seat that he knew well and one that he frequently warmed. Even though Ralphie was a decent catcher, the Roosters had #13- JJ Spock. JJ was a star athlete but worked his magic best behind the plate. The opposing teams’ players knew the boy’s name and so did their coaches. They limited lead offs to six feet. If a player dared go beyond that threshold, JJ, called “the Rocket” by his comrades, would sense it. He would throw them out before the runner had even realized the ball had left the pitcher’s glove. The Rocket was something else.

Ralphie and the other bench riders theorized their teammate’s talent. Did he have some sort of echolocation? A robotic right arm wrapped in skin? They adored JJ. He hosted the team’s monthly pizza parties and paid each boy’s share at the Mio Lanes Batting Cages. Despite The Rocket’s dominance, he never once showed a shred of an ego. Ralphie threw the ball around with the star catcher during each practice. JJ gave him pointers- teaching Ralphie how to frame and dance his fingers around in coded signs. He improved, exponentially, when JJ was around. But no matter how fast he could flicker his fingers between his quadriceps, Ralphie knew that he could never hold down the field like The Rocket.

He watched from the dugout as JJ shot the shrimpy boy at first a death glare. The kid stood his ground- was that a smirk? Big mistake. WOOSH! The baseball flew like a can of nitro. Gus, the first baseman for the Roosters, put a hard tag on the cocky runner. He was out by a long shot. The Rocket removed his catcher helmet and brushed back a near mullet. He flashed the banished opponent a smile that Ralphie knew would have the Colgate salesmen rushing to Oqueqoc with a sponsorship deal.

CRACK! A tree branch broke. Ralphie turned away from the field to see where the noise had come from. He peered past the parents who were glue-eyed to the game and into the Pepper Woods.

There they were again. Those kids. They were holding mulberries. That made the benchwarmer’s tummy rumble. The boys should have gotten popcorn from the concession stand- it was only a dollar on Fridays. Ralphie bet it was better than whatever woody-mumbo-jumbo they were noshing on anyway.

Even the Rocket’s ESPN-worthy performance behind the plate could not save the Ocqueoc Roosters. The other team had a few infielders that Ralphie swore had some sort of telekinesis or something. It didn’t help that the ump was just a 16-year-old chump from the local high school, either. They funneled out of the dugout and into the line of mandatory post-game high fives that always included a few “see you next game” threats sprinkled in. The Roosters organized themselves in a pouty pow-wow just past shortstop region, prepared to get chewed. By the time Coach Maz started to run through his list of critiques, Ralphie didn’t bother to listen. He got to 112 daffodils before they were released off the patchy grass of left field.

Coach did make one thing clear: No win. No postgame celebration.

That was fine. He didn’t feel like biking to the Dairy Queen anyway. Back home was far enough after an exhausting day at mid-right bench. The other boys peeled off in their ice box cars and mom vans, but Ralphie stayed and blasted that week’s playlist from his Walkman, enjoying a Dilly Bar in peace. Ralphie felt enrobed in the sea of life, savoring the light, crunchy layer of chocolate laced with creamy vanilla. In fact, he was so euphoric that he lost track of time itself. And soon, thanks to the incoming of daylight savings, it began to get dark. He finished the Dilly’s final piece of chocolate coating and licked the wooden popsicle stick for any stray atoms of ice cream. Ralphie left his roost from the see-saw, leaving the lever to justify itself back to equilibrium, and trudged through the grits of asphalt to his green Huffy.

Ralphie could have unlocked that thing with his hands zip-tied behind his back. But, before he could pop off the cord, it was those boys again. They were feet away, staring at him as if he was the person who was peculiar. Ralphie felt like he was at a zoo but remained unsure if he was the one looking in or out. The tall boy had something; it didn’t look like a stick.

Hey, I see y’all!

As the boys emerged from the cloak of evergreen, Ralphie saw what they were carrying. The moonlight reflected off of it, a silver sheen in a canvas of beryl, maroon, and beige. His bat. There was no way he was going to let them get away with that. It was a Wrigleyville Slugger, mint condition- the premium model. It took two years of his caddie paychecks to buy that thing. Even JJ’s parents, who had enough dough to open their own pizza factory, refused to indulge in such a luxury. And here they were, the forest freaks, clutching it as if they had just been gifted it from Ty Cobb himself.

The small one spoke- in English, not woodland jargon. We have an offer.

This made Ralphie scratch his helmet. He was pretty sure the next episode of Antiques Roadshow was scheduled to take place somewhere other than a spit-in-the-sand town in Michigan’s thumb. He was also pretty sure that his 5’7’’ self could easily pound the two string beans- who were probably still shorter than him when combined. But they had a reinforced metal bat, and he had a freshly-licked wooden popsicle stick. So, Ralphie decided to play it safe.

For the bat? Go ahead, I worked two summers to pay for that thing.

The tall boy swirled the bat in his hands, fixated on the metal club. Finally, the small one reached into the pocket of his corduroys and removed a small vial. He walked closer to Ralphie and held out his palm.

If you want to play, take this. We will return your bat, but only once we know you are worthy.

Ralphie really wanted that bat, but he also really wanted to play. In his years of little league, he had only ever used the thing in practice. In fact, the bat was still mint condition because it had touched nothing but air. He knew that his mother would go nuts if she learned of this trade. But what was the use anymore? If this potion was the only cure, so be it. He snatched the vial from the small one’s dusty hand.

You can keep that bat. But this stuff better work.

The forest kids could have it. For now.

A small smile appeared on each of the boys’ lips before they flitted back into the woods, dodging gangly branches and rocky outcroppings in the moonlight.

Ralphie biked home fast, at an RPM that could identify his legs as eggbeaters. He barreled through dinner and skipped the apple cobbler his mother had spent all day preparing. A spray of water with a swath of suds qualified as that day’s shower. Ralphie could barely contain his excitement, as he unwrapped the potion from his makeshift cushion of Tacky Towels. The vial was small and blue- a glass blown tear drop. It smelled like frankincense and had a tinge of citrus, almost identical to the air freshener Ralphie’s mother kept tucked underneath the toilet bowl.

He took a deep breath.

3.

2.

1.

                             Down the hatch it went.

The taste was sweet, not like syrup, but like the boysenberry pie Ralphie’s grandmother baked every time they came for a visit. He could feel the potion slip down his esophagus and bathe in his bloodstream. It was more enjoyable than the chicken paprikash that Ralphie’s sister and blood-related personal chef, Juliet, had stewed for that evening’s supper. Ralphie slipped under the covers and enjoyed his longest sleep of the year, which was rudely interrupted by his involuntary commitment known as school.

Classes were a blur. Junior told him a very long story that he nodded and wow’d and uh-huh’d to. Choir was another opportunity to practice his lip-sync skills. Lunch was chicken nuggets with tangy red sauce and mushy Gala apples.

Then, gym class came. Ralphie assumed his position on the bench and waited as the innings ticked by. Finally, he took a stand against the kickball pitcher and did something that remains in the Ocqueoc Elementary history books to this day. Ralphie sent that thing flying. The rubber ball whizzed across the sky and into the cow pasture that outlined the end of the outfield and continued into the maize-hued horizon. He could have run a victory lap if he wanted, walked it even. Ms. Brown’s science lesson served as background noise to the schoolchildren’s resulting chatter. A chemical chain reaction was interesting, but that kid Ralphie’s kick during P.E.? Legendary.

At the conclusion of classes, Ralphie, who had felt like a jumping jellybean for the whole school day, was first to run out the door. His arm begged for a baseball. He biked to the field and practiced throws against the concession stand’s asphalt roofing. Hours felt like minutes. Soon, the sun melted into the horizon and Coach Maz lit the floodlights. Game time.

It was a perfect warmup, Ralphie felt. The cool, spring air was making its return and the leaves shook with quivers and crinkles at each stray wind gust. He threw ball after ball into Junior’s mitt.

On the neighboring field, where the reserves conditioned their elbow grease, he was unbreakable. Grade A platinum steel behind the plate. And, in what seemed like a day, Ralphie was sure that he had shattered the glass ceiling where JJ had been hanging out. He had soared past it and beyond. Today was his day and Junior, wide-eyed and breathless, agreed. Ralphie dusted off his helmet, strapped on a chest protector, and marched towards the man with the power.

Coach, can I get a few minutes in today?

Coach Maz spit out a hunk of tobacco. He didn’t bother to look at Ralphie- his eyes were drawn to The Rocket, who was practicing his throwdowns. Finally, the old man’s eyes removed themselves from the gaps in the chain linked fence and looked down on the Roosters’ secondary relief catcher.

Ralph, come over here. I want you to look at this kid. Do you see that cannon? That pinpoint accuracy?

Raphie looked. He had been looking for the past seven years.

Coach, I know it’s an important game, but I want to show you all the work I have put in. Can I just show you?

His coach removed his cap, which was emblazoned with an emerald cockerel. He scratched the few hairs that remained on his silvery scalp and appeared to ponder the benchman’s request. It was at this time that the Wavertown Weasels began to warm up their starting pitcher. The boy, who had a mop of brown curls, was JJ in inverse. His catcher took ample pause to recover from his teammate’s stinging fastballs. He appeared to be wearing two layers of padding, fearful of #45’s sniper-esque accuracy and barreling speed.

A confident Coach Maz dissolved into a weary, dreary hunch. Ralphie already knew what the old man was going to tell him.

Ralph, I hate to say this, but today is not the day. The Weasels have Buzzelli, and you know we have to win this game to make playoffs. Ralphie, that kid…

Coach Maz pointed his index finger at The Rocket, who was on the last round of his third base throwdown drills, for extra emphasis. We need him.

But coach –

Ralphie. Sit down.

The coach redirected his eyes to the field and spit the remainder of his tobacco juice into an empty glass bottle of Cheerwine. Ralphie threw his glove into a hanger cubby and took a seat next to Junior. His friend continued to suck the seasoning from a handful of dill sunflower seeds. The other reserves were engaged in a heated UNO match. Ralph would have joined them if he hadn’t scanned the timberline first. A metallic gleam near the furthest oak caught his eye.

It was the boys. They were wandering away from the park, towards the Bumblebrook Marsh. The tall one got in stance and gave his best swing at a lonesome crabapple. Ralphie watched the firm fruit explode into a miniscule fulmination of skin, pulp, and seeds. They disappeared into the Pepper Woods, probably off to one of their berry-picking, stick-sharpening escapades. Ralphie thought about chasing them. Getting that Louisville Slugger he had worked months just to feel. But, only for a second.

He opened a new pack of Big League Chew and shoved a handful of the purple strips into his trap. After all, it was a windy spring evening and mid-right bench would be absolutely freezing without a player like him. The bench boy thought it would end there, but before he could witness The Rocket’s next clutch play, his fingertips nudged something on the underside of the bench. Paper. And it hadn’t been there the night before.