/
In other neighborhoods, Kenneth McCormick does not exist. There's some other, more standard, less attractive blonde boy with a different name. He probably has better habits, a better future, a better home—but he's not as elusive as Kenny. His hair might not be as blonde. He can't disappear into narrow waves of cigarette smoke, like Kenny can. He certainly can't yearn for Craig, like the sardonic boy wishes he would; that other boy doesn't even know Craig. And he feels like, that's the thing. He thinks: that's the rationale for any story, any romance.
Kenny is here, and the other boy is somewhere else. There's a whole world out there—billions of people he could've become—but he's here; he's wordlessly watching Craig swing at and miss oncoming baseballs. Inwardly, he's thinking of how Craig is the best pitcher on the high school team and how his trip to the batting cage isn't really necessary. He's thinking of the way his fingers flex around the bat, how the bat doesn't look right in Craig's arms. Kenny's thinking of things to say, things he'll never say, even when he and Craig are the only people lurking the batting cages.
But- truthfully- it's all Craig's imagination running wild, like the forest adjacent to town. It's the reason why he can't fucking hit anything in this fucking place. Craig's always thinking about Kenny, wondering what the fuck he's doing behind him, wondering what he's assuming whenever he swings. When curiosity tugs at Craig enough for him to turn around, he's never disappointed. Kenny's either slanted against a bench, popping bubblegum or smoking cigarettes he shouldn't be. He's either kicking the vending machine in the next room, gaze flicking between the cages and the glow of junk food behind the glass—or he's keen on the baseball activity.
His eyes—that remarkable cerulean color the oceans envy—are either burning hot holes in Craig's back, or they're pinned on Stan Marsh: Craig's unofficial mortal enemy. Stan: who's juggling football in the autumn and baseball in the spring. Stan: the same Stan who laboriously kissed Kenny in the boy's locker room (because he wanted to know how it would taste), who can't leave Kenny alone—even when he has his cute little redhead waiting for him back in the suburbs.
Craig pauses, baseballs flying past him and pushing into the net. He swelters in his hoodie; he listens to Stan's bat strike every baseball hurled at him. He squeezes his own and lets all of his frustration seep into the pores of the wood.
He thinks: in other neighborhoods, Kenneth McCormick does not exist. There's a different blonde boy that Craig couldn't possibly ponder like this because he's not as handsome, because he doesn't smoke as much. He understands the rationale for any story, any romance; it's all about being in the right place at the right time. He tells himself: the right time may never arrive, but it could be imminent. He convinces himself that South Park is the right place, but he'd rather be somewhere warmer, where the houses aren't plastered in an indigo film, where Kenny's caramel tan skin doesn't look so odd.
Craig misses another baseball and believes that the black net of the batting cage is the only thing separating him from Kenny. He tells himself: focus, you're in the same fucking vicinity as Kenny.
Between swings, Craig thinks: you should be grateful for that.
/
Pitching practice is different.
Craig pitches in the tranquility of his spacious backyard, which is mostly dirt, weeds, and spontaneous patches of snow; this setting lacks the airburst of baseballs being fired across batting cages, the poof sounds of baseballs smacking against nets, and the devious distraction of Kenny. His father purchased a deluxe pitching target from the sporting goods outlet a while ago, and every day Craig puts it to use. He throws forty pitches: ten curveballs, sinkers, cutters, and screwballs each.
Sometimes, his father watches from the back porch and compliments his form. There are times when he's in worse moods, when he nitpicks the positions of Craig's fingers, the speed of the ball as it slaps the target. But Craig's alone frequently—it's usually just him and his lucky baseball with the loose, red stitching and the faded signature. The cicadas drone hidden tunes; a certain mountain peak eclipses the sun and the entire neighborhood turns blue. The winds whisper and fuck up the curve of his pitch.
In this denim environment, Kenny can't get to him. Blonde thoughts can't lurk here. Every throw reminds him of his invulnerability.
Craig tells himself: your curveball is gorgeous, but your sinker is better.
/
Hey… I don't know shit about baseball.
It's a little short, but I'm testing the waters. Tell me how you feel.