Peter swung again. Strike two. His face contorted in effort and frustration. His jaw worked his gum furiously. He was a good hitter, but overeager, always looking for the home run on every pitch. He struck out as often as he connected. On the third pitch, though, his aluminum bat swatted the ball with a loud ting, and the ball lofted over Stride’s head into the outfield, where it dropped for an easy single. Peter loped to the base. He bent down and picked up a half-full bottle of Grain Belt and swigged it empty, then tossed the bottle toward the weeds. He wiped his mouth with the bottom of his red tank top.

“So it’s you and Cindy Starr, huh, Stride?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“You know, her sister is the real prize.”

Stride didn’t reply.

“Laura’s the one with the tits,” Peter continued. “Half the guys here got boners when she walked by. Why aren’t you going after her?”

“Because I like Cindy.”

“Yeah? What’s she like?”

“Why do you care?” Stride asked.

“I’m not hot for her, if that’s what you think. I just wondered if the princess act runs in the family.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean that Laura walks around like some kind of ice queen,” Peter replied. “Somebody needs to thaw her out.”

“Shut up,” Stride said.

“So how about Cindy? Is she a frigid queer like her sister?”

Stride threw off his baseball glove and shoved both bare hands against Peter’s chest. Peter stumbled backward, lost his footing in the damp grass, and landed on his ass in the mud. Stride stood over him, fists clenched and cocked, ready to fight. He heard shouts from some of the other boys in the field. The pitcher dropped the ball; the batter threw the bat away; they all began to converge on Stride.

Peter laughed and got up, brushing dirt from his skin. He waved them away. “Hey, it’s okay, I had it coming.”

Stride watched carefully, expecting a sucker punch.

“Don’t sweat it,” Peter said. “I like to see how far I can push people before they push back. It’s a little lesson I learned from my dad.”

“Apologize,” Stride told him.

“Yeah, all right. I’m sorry. That do it for you? You need to lighten up, Stride.”

Stride ignored him. The game continued. The batter at the plate struck out, and another took his place. One inning to go, and it was over. He could barely make out the action on the field, as the night drew closer and the dark clouds massed.

“You seen The Deep yet?” Peter asked.

Stride grunted. He and Cindy had seen it the previous weekend.

“Saw it three times,” Peter said. “Fuck, Jackie Bisset in that T-shirt? Holy shit. I wish porn actresses looked like her. I saw Teenage Sex Kitten downtown last week. What a bunch of losers. Pimples and no tits.”

At the plate, Gunnar Borg punched a ground ball past the pitcher that took a jagged leap as it bounced off a half-buried rock in the field. Stride bounded to his right and scooped up the ball. He yanked it out of his glove and prepared to toss it to Nick Parucci at second for the out. Then he saw stars. Peter Stanhope ran over him, slamming Stride’s body into the dirt with his right shoulder and jarring the ball out of his hands. Stride recovered quickly and grabbed the ball out of the grass again, but by then, Peter was standing on second base, grinning, and the other runner was at first.