Kristine Joy, Writer

This was written for a writing class in which we had to mimic the writing style of a chosen author.

Preamble: Appaloosa, by Robert B. Parker, is written in first person, past tense. I will create a first person narrator, past tense. I will introduce a secondary character, and then describe the scene in which the two main characters first met. I will use a mix of sentence structures; from short and succinct to longer run-on.

Dedicated to my husband (known as Coach to everyone else); because he is a fan of Robert B. Parker and because he is one of the greats in his own field.

Also dedicated to the grandfather of my great grandmother / my great-great-great grandfather, who actually was a Fire Chief in Chicago that died by the stated cause.

Many moons ago, and too many baseball games since then to count, I distinctly remember, with detail as fine as the finest china, the first time that I saw Coach coach. His presence was towering. He addressed his team with a “speak softly and carry a big stick” demeanor. Always in control of himself, and always one step ahead of the opposing coach.

Like my older brother, I was athletic. But being a female athlete in the 1870’s was frowned upon. I became the first woman to graduate law school instead, yet another act of impropriety. Mother often reminded me that I was good at those. The State of Illinois must have agreed with her. They denied me admittance to the bar for over a decade. Throughout these years, I secretly drank, screwed men when I wanted to, fought for women’s suffrage and watched my brother play baseball, which is how I found myself entering the 23rd Street Grounds.

The ballpark occupied a city block and was just Southeast of where the Chicago Fire had ripped through the city. I teared up. My Father had been the Chief, and had been trapped under the wreckage with many of his men for days. Out of necessity, they drank contaminated water from horse troughs. I find it odd that it was water, and not fire, that took his life.

The first pitch was lambasted for a homerun. The ball hit the dirt near me and rolled to a stop. Still deep in thought, I picked it up. To the astonishment of everyone except my brother, I whipped a beeline to his glove at shortstop. The crowd had silenced, which made the ball hitting his glove sound like the firing of a cannon. Coach did a double take. And then a triple take when his second glance noted that I was wearing a brightly colored gown with a bustled skirt. He and I proceeded to lock eyes more than a few times as the Chicago White Stockings galloped to a win.

This is how, nearly a decade ago, I came to be the wife of a baseball coach. And this is why, I find myself alongside him now, me wearing a more formfitting corset and boned bodice, as we enter a new field, League Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds, and now the two of us.

To be continued….

“At risk of carrying this Vesalian analogy a bit too far, there is another way to think about a story vis-à-vis expansion: not as a framework, but as a discrete element—a chapter—already fully formed. An organ. Something that cannot survive long without a body around it. The lone chapter dies without its surrounding novel.” – Bill Cotter (How Do You Know If Your Short Story Should Be a Novel?)