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Chapter 4: Chaw




      "Nice throw Zelmo," sings first baseman Duke Schneider after I field a grounder in our last practice before the fall intercollegiate season begins. 

"How the hell do you know Zelmo Beaty?" I call over to Duke, shaking my head at his obscure knowledge of an old player from the now defunct American Basketball Association.

"You do too!" he laughs, spewing a stream from a cheek loaded with Beech-Nut.



     Back in New Jersey we often chewed gum during games. My championship high school team cracked open a jumbo pack of Big Red before every game and it propelled us to the state finals. Half the Louisville team chewed tobacco, some in loose-leaf form like Duke, others with snuff tucked under a lip. 

     I had decided to try it in my dorm room first, grabbing a pack of Red Man from the nearby Seven-Eleven. I stuffed a wad of the sticky leaves into my cheek as I laid down on the carpeted floor to read a chapter from my Psychology textbook. The course was a requirement of the Criminal Justice major that was the reason I'd applied to U of L. It was one of a handful of schools east of the Mississippi with the new major, and it was the only one from which the football coach had answered my letter about trying out as a walk-on. Louisville had the added enticements of being in my mother's home state and having the same colors as my high school team, a secret pleasure I didn't share with anyone else. 

     It took an hour to finish the chapter, all the while spitting into a white coffee cup lifted from the cafeteria. I’d felt no effects of the tobacco, good or ill, and the squat mug was nearly full. I stood up to empty it and fell over with dizziness, spilling the vile stuff onto my blue textured bedspread. I took it as a sign that the splatter seemed to spell out the letters N-O between the lined pattern. 



     "Charge the ball Zelmo!" decrees Coach Z from home plate but with a grin at the unusual nickname.

"It's just the basics," chides Richie Cunningham stepping into the shortstop position behind me.

"Not on my high school field," I mutter, turning back so only he can hear. "A wicked lip made the ball leap." 

"We're not in Kansas anymore," the chawless little shit grins.




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