Alma Mae Purdy's Smile

Alma Mae Purdy, without a doubt, kept glancing toward left center field, where John and I were standing practically next to each other in our tour of duty on defense. There were maybe eight of us in the outfield all told, so it wasn't as if we were out of place or anything.

"Mm hmm," I affirmed. It was okay for John to think that; in fact, I think I preferred it that way. I wasn't about to set myself up in the position of being teased by my peers. Fifth graders can be tough; they can also be irrational. The same fifth grade boy that goes into a swoon when a girl winks at him will also tease into a quagmire of humility any other fifth grade male who admits to liking a girl.

I didn't have the overall athletic prowess of John - I'm not sure anyone else in our class did, either - but I had the good fortune of having a father who played catch with me every night. I knew how to work a ball glove; I knew how to judge a fly ball; and I was confident that I could catch just about anything that was hit into the deep blue mid afternoon sky in an Iowa spring.

"Yep, she sure is watching ..."

John's comment was interrupted by the crack of the bat. John began racing forward the moment the ball left the bat, yelling, "Mine!"

I, quietly, knew otherwise. That ball was going places. I turned and ran away from home plate. I didn't need to yell anything. I ran swiftly and, looking back over my right shoulder, I stretched out my left hand and caught the ball.

Alma Mae was smiling. John was not.

"I said it was mine," whined John.

"Just helping you out, buddy," I smiled. "You can get the next one."

No sooner had I spoken than another crack of the bat rippled to the outfield, and a towering fly ball was settling straight overhead.

"Take it, John."

"Mine!" yelled John. He braced himself, and I backed away a few feet behind him. John didn't look as though he really wanted to catch it, but he was committed by that point.

I don't have the quickest reflexes, but I know how to anticipate. My glove was up and ready, just in case. Daddy had taught me how to back up the other fielders. And sure enough, when the ball reached John's glove, he closed his mitt too early and the ball bounced out and up. With a bit of luck, my glove tracked down the errant ball like a magnet and I made the catch.

Alma Mae was still smiling.

"Hey, she's still smiling at me," said John, as I handed John the ball and told him to throw it back into the infield.

"She sure is, John. She sure is."

I reached with my right hand into my pocket. The note was still there. I wasn't quite sure what the implications were of getting a perfumed note from a nice girl like Alma Mae Purdy. But I knew it wasn't a bad thing.

Meanwhile, I was going to enjoy playing ball. I stood there with my hands on my knees, waiting for another crack of the bat. I had all the time in the world under the deep blue afternoon sky of an Iowa spring.