“Marisela Rivas.”

“Uh—Tiffany Queensberry.” They shook hands.

LeLe arrived and Marisela enfolded her. “What’s up, home-girl?”

“Same-same. Playin’ ball. What’re you doing way over here?”

“Cage time—and regionals.” She eyed LeLe’s bag. “You a Copperhead now, huh?” LeLe nodded.

Tiffany conveyed her puzzlement. LeLe saw and pushed gently away. “Oh—me and Marisela played 12Us together on the West side, before we moved over here. Tif here’s my best friend, and our starting pitcher.”

“All right!” Marisela extended a low palm toward Tiffany, who slapped it tentatively. “Me, too!” The big girl’s mirthful eyes narrowed on LeLe again. “She any good?”

LeLe pinkie-pointed back. “You get past the Bombers this afternoon, you’ll find out tomorrow!”

Tiffany finally understood. “Oh. You pitch for the Strikers!”

Marisela opened her jacket. “One and the same!”

“Marisela! You’re up! Let’s go!”

She wheeled and waved at a husky Latino in a ball cap matching hers. “’Kay, Coach! Well, gotta go. Get your ya-yas out, sistahs!”

LeLe caught her arm. “Good luck.”

“What’s luck got to do with it?” They stared at her; she laughed. “You, too, now. See you later—I hope!” She loped away. Tiffany watched her quads and glutes ripple in retreat. All she could manage was a low whistle. LeLe seized her shoulders and got up in her face. “You two are going to be awesome, tomorrow. I can’t wait!”

“Bring it in, ladies!”

Pete Lopez—auto parts distributor, retired semi-pro infielder, and die-hard diamond tactician—had coached the Copperheads from 12Us up after taking his granddaughter, Letitia, to their first meeting and impulsively sticking up his hand. His love for her and for the game took care of the rest.

“All right, Copperheads. Coach Young—“ Pete nodded toward Ronnie Young, his lanky assistant sucked in with daughter LeLe the meeting after that—“has the book on the Sting. Their pitching is decent but nothing you haven’t already seen. Relief is weak when coming from behind. Defense is adequate but inexperienced, so they tend to short the field and press when leaned on. We’re faster, so let’s get on them early. We’re away—LeLe, you can expect to lay it down to test the first baseman and how they cover, so pay attention to Pops over at first, for a change.”

LeLe and her father traded grins.

“Tif, I’m moving you to the two-hole. I need you to work a walk, so pick her up as quick as you can. We might try to move Le over before then, depending how sharp she is. Sierra? You move from seven to three; be ready to punch it into the alleys. And Tonya, you’re cleanup for Tif today. I want those bases cleaned and all those Sting shorts dirty, so gimme that Tonya glare.”

Their massive catcher smiled and slid her face into a passable Shaquille O’Neill glower. She couldn’t sustain it, though, and delicately covered her mouth as laughter and playful punches rained in on her.

Pete mused just long enough, then raised his hands. “Okay, people. Everybody else check with me before I give the card to the ump. Otherwise, Plan A. Tif, I might rest you if we’re up early to let Brie get good and loose before tomorrow.”

Tiffany the competitor suppressed a frown.

“Hey,” Pete said. “You’re my leader, and I’m going to need every bit of that rotator cuff if we get the Strikers tomorrow.” He chucked her chin to bring her back. “How’s it feel, by the way?”

She melted a little. “Good to go.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, and turned. “Anything else, Coach Young?”

Ronnie traced an arc with a Nike nin the dirt below his folded arms and poked at the smokeless behind his lower lip with his tongue. He husbanded a smile. This guy is so good, he thought. Short, sweet, complete. You can almost smell the focus on these girls. “No, Coach Lopez.”

“Any questions?” He glanced around, satisfied. He thrust a fist out, waist high; fourteen hands landed on it.

“One, two, three—COPPERHEADS!”

They broke. The players busied themselves with bench positions, managing the nervous excitement with low trash talk. Pete detected a prominent Adam’s apple in his peripheral vision.

“Coach?”

Pete stifled his pique out of sheer habit. “Oh. Hi, Arnie. A little late today, aren’t we?”

“RV sale—what can I say?” The sponsor flashed that car-closer grillwork—all the enamel, with most of the pink tissue thrown in. “Lord’s work is never done.”

Pete rubbed his face to erase any evidence of true feelings. “Ladies, bring it back in for Arnie, please?” He shifted backward a little to allow the reluctant semicircle to form and to find his own shelter. A couple of throats were cleared; Arnie closed his eyes and abruptly raised his arms to the Jesus-over-Rio position. Brie ducked, successfully.

“Our Dear Lord Jesus, guide us on Thy path and make our bats to be true as we lay Thine enemies low, as Samson slew the Philistines with the jawbone of an Ass...”

“Amen!” Tiffany cried. Heads were bent in practiced piety; yea, many were buried in backs, and it was good. The blasphemer gave LeLe such a baleful look that she almost swallowed her fist. Arnie rambled to a close and a proper chorus of "Amens." Pete crossed himself deliberately, knowing that it made Arnie uncomfortable, and commanders and warriors resumed their girding.