The scrawny kid usually gets a hit. He’s left handed but bats right. Batting right means his surest and strongest hand is nearest the bottom of the bats, and maybe this helps steady his swing. Batting right also means that as his bat leaves his shoulder, its tip seeking the ball, his left arm leads the way. It’s the arm he habitually uses to reach for things, and maybe that gives him a surer, truer swing. He’s only ten, none of this occurs to him, but he just accepts as fact that if the softball drops anywhere near his strike zone, he will connect.

Being short, his strike zone is nearer the ground than most batters’. The underhanded pitch, lofted up rather than hurled straight, must drop farther from the top of its arc to reach him. Maybe that gives his eyes and hands an extra millisecond to measure his aim and swing. His arms lack the strength to bite into the ball and drive it, so the scrawny kid hits mostly grounders. His hits bump across the field like a slow but purposeful toad, but he is fast, and the instant the ball smacks off the bat, he’s off for first, his white, stick legs pumping as hard and straight as the low, line-drive he’ll never hit.

No fifth grade infielder is quick enough to rush the ball and make the throw to first in time. When the scrawny kid hits, it’s a given he’ll make first. It’s so sure a thing, his team mates don’t cheer, his coach doesn’t clap. It always happens. They stand in anticipation of the disappointment of his striking out, and with the crack of the bat they return to the bench.

The scrawny kid also knows that once he’s on first, second is just another quick sprint away. With the very next pitch, he’s off for second in another line drive dash. He is fearless with the intuitive knowledge that no fifth grade catcher has the arm for the long, high throw over the pitcher to second.

Another given. If the scrawny kid gets to first, he always gets to second. They only clap and cheer if the kid at bat hits. If the hit pops up and is caught, they worry he can make it back to base to tag up. If the hit goes deep, they’re anxious if he’ll know to keep running once he makes second.

The kid likes softball. He likes to hit and he loves to run, and he likes standing out in right field, where no one ever hits, and he can watch the game in peace.

The scrawny kid stands on second, watching batters coming to the plate, one after another. He knows not to try stealing third. Even a fifth-grade catcher can be counted on to make the easy throw to third. He never makes third unless his teammate at the plate hits deep into the outfield, or the pitcher gives up a walk with two on. If it’s an infield or shallow outfield hit, he’s a poor judge of his chances to make third. He’s never tried to figure it out, or listened to the coach or other players explain it to him. He’s only there to run, so as soon as the bat cracks, he’s off.

He’s the only southpaw on his team. The right handers who follow him in the batting order, and those who precede him, usually hit to left, and rarely hit deep. The scrawny kid finds himself running into a pair of jaws formed by the pitcher on his left, and the short stop on his right, and the third baseman at the place where the jaws close. Usually he gets picked off or tag. Sometimes he gets caught between bases, and that’s kind of fun, running back and forth with quick little dodges until he finally gets tagged. On a good day, he can drag the spectacle out quite a while, and enjoys that too because the kids on both benches get to groaning and yelling at him, and the coach gets disgusted. Disgusting a coach is also something the scrawny kid is a natural at. If he’d ever opened a package of bubble gum to and found his trading card inside, it would have listed his batting average in the low 80s, and credited him for most bases stolen and most coaches disgusted.

The scrawny kid’s only on the team because his school is so small there are only nine fifth graders, which makes playing compulsory. He doesn’t think of himself as a member of the team. He sees himself as more of a spectator who, at intervals, gets a break from the cheap seats to watch the game from one of two private boxes, one on second, and one in right field.

The scrawny kid stands on second, watching the game. He knows three things. He may well be the third out who retires his side. Then he’ll run to the bench, grab his left-handed mitt and run for the outfield. Once in right field, where no fifth grader ever hits, he can relax and watch the game, and enjoy his wait for the next third out.