I’ll never know who actually threw the snowball. I mean, we were all throwing snowballs; it being perfect wet spring snow for packing. But which of us hit the windshield of the passing car? That’s what I don’t know. Not Figowitz, that’s for sure. Scrawny. His snowballs always looked more like snowwallnuts or snowprunes, and he just didn’t have the arm. And I don’t think Sally ever threw them at the cars. She didn’t have the heart. She wouldn’t even throw them at us after we pelted her. Oh, she could, I don’t doubt that, it’s just that she’d always make sure to miss, and in the event that she did accidentally hit one of us, she’d rush over to see if we were okay or not. Which left me and Braynard.
Now admittedly, Braynard was the starting pitcher on our little league team, and I only played left field, a safe place where it didn’t matter if I could throw or not since no one could hit it out that way, but still, who knows? It could have been a one-in-a-million shot, so you never know, it could have been me. Thing is, when the snowball hit the windshield, there was a sick shattering sound, and before the crumpling sound of metal, we all turned and ran. None of us stuck around to see what really happened, and none of us were ever caught, but the four of us, we know. One of us threw it. It could have been me.