The Batter and the Box

"Mommy!” Karl runs from the dugout, his arms full of gear, "Look what the coach gave us."

I take the pint-size blue and gold jersey, hold it in the breeze and read the back - Buck Henry's B&G.

"Your sponsor is the bar and grill?” I glance around a sleeve and eye my young son.

He grins and says, "Now all your friends can root for our team."

I visualize betting pools and score boards with little squares and shudder.

"Guess what else we got?" Socks, sweatshirt and a medium-size supporter tumble to the ground. He shuffles through the pile, pops up like a fly ball and holds a package under my nose. "Candy!"

“Fundraiser chocolate bars?” I read the item count - twenty-four bars per box - one dollar each.

"For the team," he peels open a box, grasps a long one and rips back the wrapper. "And the person who sells the most gets a ten-pound candy bar."

I snatch a second liability from his hand. "How many boxes do you have?"

"Five," he sparkles.

 I gulp and do the math. “120 minus one."

"We can come back for more. Coach has plenty."

"Bet he does." I wave to the enthusiastic coach and begrudgingly haul away boxes, begging to define the fun in fundraiser.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and mull. Boxes of calories weigh down the back seat.

"I have an idea." I turn into our driveway. "You and your sister can stand outside Buck Henry's and sell candy.” After all, Buck is a co-conspirator, he might as well get into the game.

"I'll tell Erin." He scoots out of the car, arms overloaded with Little League dreams. I hustle behind, eager for a quick sale.

Inside, I dig through drawers. I toss the kids bright yellow shorts and plastic helmets with a yellow A's sticker.

Karl pulls the trunks away from his skinny legs. "I look like a lemon."

"Why do we need to wear these?" Erin peeks out from the oversized helmet.

"Marketing." A final search nets a pennant flag. An elephant lifts its trunk and toots "Go Oakland".

"I'm not holding that thing." Karl backs away, palms planted high in protest.

"Erin?" I sense a player strike.

"No way,” her golden curls bounce in negative agreement.

I concede the battle. "Got your money box? Candy?" Plan in motion, we head out.

Outside the tavern, Karl holds the candy while Erin cradles the money container. I sit in the car and signal the kids of potential customers.

A customer. I make eye contact with Karl. We lock stares. I tap my chest, run my hand down my arm, and tip my nose. He pulls his right ear lobe. Message received. The customer is at the plate. I watch and wait. What? No purchase? Probably a low carb guy.

A couple stops, the woman speaks to Karl. He stands soldier. Not a pop of a gum bubble. Erin huddles by her older brother. A shared glance and the twosome walk away, empty of calories.

A patron exits the grill and asks, "What’re you selling?"

Karl's mouth drops open, he shuffles on his feet, no words of sale escape.

With a shrug, the man saunters away.

Three up, three out. I call the kids to the car window. “What’s wrong?”

The freckles on Karl’s face out shine the fear in his pale blues. "You said ‘never talk to strangers’."

Trapped by a technicality, I slump in the seat. There’s got to be a fundraiser clause in the parenting handbook.

"Get in the car. I have an idea."

"Not another idea," Erin whispers, reconsidering her duty to her brother.

A quick trip to the store for marking pens and construction paper and we're back at our spot. An added prop, a little slugger bat posed over Karl’s right shoulder. Good touch.

"Aren’t they adorable! What’s in the box?”  A crowd gathers. Bases loaded.

On cue, Erin flashes a large sign. "Candy bars - one dollar each."

A woman opens her purse and Washington crosses home plate.

"Where’s the money going?" Buck’s cook jingles four quarters in his palm.

Karl flips a second piece of bright construction paper. Purple crooked letters answer, "Support Little League Baseball".

Karl's face lights with the sale. He pulls out a third sign, "Thank-you."

Coins and dollars drop into the box, chocolate bars exit right and left. Not a word is spoken in the night air to a stranger. Score one for Mom.

Evening’s end, I fling the last empty container to the garbage bin, pull three candy bars from my pocket and say, “It’s all in how you play the game that makes you a winner.”  

THE END

AUTHOR BIO:

A 2005 USABookNews Humor finalist, Cynthia Borris, No More Bobs, resides in California. Numerous Chicken Soup for the Soul contributor and humor columnist, she is working on her next novel, To Serve Duck. For speaking engagements, contact author at website. She’ll bring the coffee and laughter but not the BOBS!   Quack, quack…