The Super Sub by Allan Ansorge

Gary squinted into the sun as he tried to locate his sister on the bench along the first base line. He was sure he had her attention when he repeatedly signaled her to warm up, waving his right arm with an abbreviated throwing motion. She didn’t move.

He knew she was deliberately ignoring him. As angry as it made him, he wasn’t about to shout at her across the diamond.  He would have with any of the other eleven registered players on his team, but not Sindy.

His slightly over weight, under conditioned catcher ended the District 3 Detectives’ fifth inning in underwhelming style: for the second time this season he was thrown out at first by the opposing right fielder. Careful to avoid stepping on either chalk foul line, Gary crossed the diamond, situating himself directly in front of Sindy.

“I need you to pitch these two innings; I have a one-run lead and the top of their order coming up.”

“Nope.”

“Not nope, YES. What are you doing on the bench anyway? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

“I told you I would play if you were short of players. You aren’t: you have two extra guys down there on the end of the bench.”

“Those aren’t players, those are bodies. You’re a player. Come on, take this glove and go out there and strike these smoke-eaters out for me; and for you.”

“For me? I really don’t care if they strike out or your team wins. Its not whether you win ─.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, but in this case it does matter to you. That fire truck I promised to have come to your school for your class;s Fire PreventionWeekprogram? Well, if we don’t win this game, it ain’t coming.”

“You gambled my class on this dumb game?”

“Not your class, just your fire truck. I prefer to think of it as negotiating.”

Sindy’s black and white high-tops showed after she hiked her flowing black skirt between her legs and tucked the hem under the white cord serving as her belt.

Gary informed the Assistant District Attorney who was umpping home plate of the double switch. Gary’s pitcher took the place of the forlorn catcher. Before Gary’s sister made it to the mound Captain Les Larson of the fire department was in Gary’s face.

“What the hell is this Gary? She’s not a cop she can’t play for you.”

“Wrong on two counts, Les. She is my sister, The Sister. And any relative can play. She is also a cop, she’s our consulting psychologist. Show him your badge Sin, I mean Sister Mary Magdalena.”

The nun-turned-pitcher gave her little brother that look that sisters reserve for brothers who have once again fallen out of favor. She fumbled for the one and only pocket in the volumous black habit, extracted the traditional leather ID holder, and hung it by the fold over the rope belt next to her rosary.

The umpire attorney joined them in the middle of the field. “Hello Sister Mary. Is there a problem? Les, I have an arraignment in thirty minutes. Could we move this along?”

The fireman scowled at the umpire, “You’re going to let her pitch?”

“I have to or she won’t consult for my office. Besides, her boss knows my boss. PLAY BALL.”

Fireman Les flipped the ball up in the air in Sister Mary’s general direction as he muttered expletives on his way back to his team’s dugout.

The nun pulled the ball from the air and said to his back, “I heard that, Coach and I’ll pray for you.”

Nine pitches later, Sister Mary was in the dugout selecting a bat to lead off with. Passing Gary on her way to the plate, she let her little brother know he owed her a uniformed officer, a squad car, and himself for her class on The Policemen Are Our Friends.