"I don't know how."
"Then you'll learn. The pitcher is one. The catcher is two. First base is three, second is four, third is five, shortstop is six. Grounder to short, throw to first, that's six-three. You write it in the box."
"Why are numbers—"
"Because somebody decided a long time ago and everybody agreed to keep it. That's most of the world, baby. Pencil's clipped to the side."
He did not want to keep score. He wanted to throw the clipboard out the window. But the man on the radio said the batter had grounded to short, and Malik's hand, which was still looking for something to hold, wrote 6-3 in the box, and his grandmother glanced over and said, "Good," and somehow they got through the fifth inning like that.
In the sixth, he said, "Why is she doing this?"
"That's hers to tell."
"You know, though."
"I know some. Some I'm guessing."
"Did you make her?"
His grandmother made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had been given more room. "Nobody has ever made your mother do anything. Including be born. She was nine days late. The doctor wanted to induce and she came the morning of the appointment, just so it would be her idea."
He did not want to hear things about his mother as a baby from this woman. It felt like being handed someone else's mail.
"She hates you," he said. He meant it to hurt.
Reverend Pike watched the road. Her hands were at ten and two, the knuckles darker than the rest of her fingers. "Hate's a big word," she said. "I'd say she has a long memory and good reasons."
"What reasons?"