Before the ball can sweep home plate, she does three little steps forward and then flips her woody shank up. Hope gets a load of the commotion as she rounds third base, she's not a bad runner either, and grabs his thick wrist, shaking the rocks free of his iron grip. The kid's face is red and taut. She's got him sideways at her waist, his arms and head dangling. It looks to me like the way he's slamming her back with his heels would hurt like mad but Hope doesn't flinch.
Somebody keep an eye on the baby.
Our sub-game, mine and Hope's. But she has a hard time kicking the ball too deep or too hard for me. When I hear her foot smack brown leather, it's the sound, the connection, I trust. When it's good, I know it. I grit my teeth and stand staunch and let the ball slam into me, knocking my breath to kingdom come.