Mike, our shortstop, dropped his glove and went after the guy, throwing punches. The benches emptied, guys raced onto the field and in from the outfield. I managed to get to my feet to keep from being trampled, then heeded my high school education and stumbled away. I was no match for the behemoths streaming onto the field when healthy. I could barely breathe, and my shoulder burned as if on fire. I vaguely heard the umpires yelling and the fans in the stands cursing and shouting obscenities. Punches were thrown, blood, ripped jerseys. This was a brawl.
In the middle of this chaos, the other team’s first baseman, a bearded player as big as a mountain, came out of the dugout and jogged toward me. This guy would snap me across his leg like the toothpicks Todd chewed, but unlike in the fights with my high school buddies, I could think of no way out of this situation. I couldn’t run and look like a coward, though I contemplated it. I dropped my glove and expected to get killed.
A blur caught my peripheral vision. William. My height, but William had lost weight over the summer, so he was likely no more than 150 pounds. Yes, he had at one time been a New Jersey State wrestling champion, but nobody in their right mind would take on the approaching guy.
William stepped in front of me and pointed at the oncoming mountain. “I want you!” he said and went into a wrestler’s stance.
The guy shifted his eyes from me to William, seemingly uncertain that William had directed his challenge at him. He’d probably never been challenged before and certainly not by some banty rooster. William threw his glove, showing absolutely no fear. Not an ounce. His eyes had become black pinpoints.
The mountain stopped and raised his hands. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Take it easy. I got no beef with you.”
“You and me. Let’s go, big boy,” William said.
The guy actually backed up. Incredible. “I just wanted to make sure the kid was all right.”
It was apparent to me that the guy’s intent was to make sure I was all right. William, however, was in fight-or-flight mode.
“William,” I said. “It’s okay. It’s okay. William.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Shutter,” I said. William jerked his head and looked at me. “It’s okay,” I said.
It took a few seconds before William’s pupils contracted and his eyes returned to blue. He looked confused, as if uncertain where we were, as if he had gone someplace else.
Eventually order was restored. The umpires called a forfeit. Both teams took a loss. Guys picked up hats and gloves and walked off the field with buttons ripped from jerseys, welts that would become bruises, and bloodied knuckles and noses. The worst of it was a cut over our center fielder’s eye, which guys fixed with a butterfly bandage from an emergency medical kit the ball field kept.
We went to Village Host and relived the incident until everyone calmed down or had enough beer to forget it.
As night settled and guys departed with their girlfriends and wives, William sat alone at a table smoking a cigarette and drinking his beer. Monica, his girlfriend, was not there this night. William sat with his head against the wall, as if taking everything in. He looked at peace, but when he lifted the cigarette to his mouth, his hand shook more violently than I had seen to that point.
I took a seat on the wooden bench across the table from him.
William rolled his head and smiled at me. He was high. “Vincenzo,” he said in a soft voice.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For what?”
“Taking on that guy.”
William shrugged. “Turned out it wasn’t much of a fight.”
“Why’d you do it?” I asked, interested in his rationale. “I mean, the guy was huge.”
William smiled. He kept his head against the wall and took another drag on his cigarette. “Did I tell you why I joined the marines?”
“You said it was hot and there was no one standing in line at the marine recruiting office.”
He laughed. “Yeah. That was one reason.” He stubbed out his cigarette and sat forward. “I joined the marines because I believed they were badasses, and I figured if I was going to go into a fight, and I was, I wanted to go in with the meanest fuckers on the planet. I didn’t want the guy next to me to hesitate when the shit hit the fan. I wanted someone I could trust to have my back.”
“I understand,” I said.
“No. You don’t.” His statement took me aback, sort of like when he told me I didn’t know scared. “That’s what I thought, but there was a lot I didn’t understand. A lot I had to learn.” He told me about the day he rode a bus to Parris Island for boot camp, and about a big southern recruit who thought he was a tough guy and ran into a drill instructor half his size and ended up doing countless push-ups.