"Strike!" The ump calls, and immediately Race indignantly snaps, "That was not a strike!"
"Race," Jack warns from the dugout.
"It wasn't a strike!"
"The ump says it's a strike," Jack retorts. "So it's a strike. Stop whinin' and play the game."
Race glares at him before lining up to bat again. Mush sidles up to Jack.
"That wasn't a strike," he whispers, and Jack nods.
"Oh, absolutely not. That was so far out of the strike zone it was almost in Queens. Who hired this ump?"
Mush chuckles.
On second base, Spot calls out, "Hey Higgins, the goal is to hit the ball , not the air ."
Race, without breaking focus, calls back, "I'm actually aimin' for your head, Conlon."
The Brooklyn team collectively says oh shit as Race grins with ease, and then the ball whistles through the air.
It connects with the bat, soaring far into right field, where - Race doesn't know any of their names - one of the Brooklyn kids stumbles backwards and it falls to the grass just behind him. Race whoops as he rounds first base and slides into second just as the ball slaps the palm of Spot's glove.
The Newsies dugout cheers loudly, and Race hears Specs shout, "Damn right!" He grins.
"Asshole," Spot says, whacking him with his glove anyway. Race gets up, dusting himself off.
"You're just jealous of my slidin' skills," Race taunts, as Spot throws the ball back to the pitcher, who goes by Whistler, because of how goddamn fast he pitches. Race has only ever exchanged snippets of conversation with him. He's a tough guy, burly, and seems perpetually angry.
Spot pffts in dissent, eyes trained on Itey, who's batting now. Jack says he has some fancy-ass strategy for determining the lineup: Race is a strong hitter, so he goes first, and then Itey, who's a lefty, to throw them off.
The team knows it's all bullshit. Crutchie can vouch for this, as he once walked in on Jack throwing darts at a piece of paper that, upon closer inspection, had the names of everyone on the team in a chart.
Crutchie had sworn not to tell anyone, and had promptly told Race, who'd spread it to the whole team.
They keep up the pretense that Jack knows what the fuck he's doing. It boosts his self-confidence.
The first throw is a ball that, thankfully, the umpire acknowledges as such. So is the second one.
"Is he gonna walk Itey?" Race says indignantly. "What a dick!"
Spot elbows him. "Don't call Whistler a dick or he'll rip yours off."
Race almost chokes. "Christ."
Another ball.
"Don't walk him!" Race shouts, and Spot elbows him again.
"Shut up, asshole."
" You shut up. Ain't nobody asked for your opinion."
Whistler throws a pitch that's supposed to be the fourth ball, probably, but it's in the strike zone, and Itey swings and misses.
"Just so you know," Spot says, without looking away from home plate, "this is the last time you's ever gonna be safe at second."
Race laughs. "Like I'm ever safe 's long as you're playin' second? Please."
