Batting Ninth (2 page)

D
ude! What did you get on that math test?” Jose asked at my locker in the sixth-grade hall-way. “I only got a 66.”

I read the grade Mr. Kahler had scribbled on the test that stuck out of my math book.

“Looks like a 98,” I said. “It should have been a 100, but I forgot to carry a four on one of the division problems.”

“A 98! I never got a 98 in my life!” Jose said.

“I guess I’m a natural,” I said, grinning only slightly.

Zach Neal stood a few lockers away, searching for his baseball glove. It’s a wonder he ever found anything in his locker. Candy wrappers spilled out onto the floor every time he opened it.

“Too bad hitting a baseball doesn’t come so easy, huh, Griffin?” Zach said. “Now, how many times did I strike you out this season?”

Even though every kid in school knew Zach could pitch, hit, catch, and run better and faster than anyone else, he never missed a chance to remind us.

“Funny, I didn’t know you could count,” Jose said, stepping between Zach and me. Zach glared at Jose and took a deep breath.

“I can count as high as the Rangers’ chances of making it to the championship,” he said, sneering just like he had in Sunday’s game. “Zero.”

“Well, we’re gonna start poppin’ the ball. Ain’t that right, Chad?” Jose looked over his shoulder for me. But I had already started walking away, moving my way through the crowded hallway. I remembered the rumor of the kid Zach had put in a cast. I didn’t want to give him a reason to do the same to me.

*****

Jose and I biked from school to the Waterfront Baseball Center, a park that sat almost directly on Brightsport Beach, the one sandy piece of coastline in the state. When school was out for the summer, tourist traffic would make it unsafe to bike around town. But we’d practiced on Tuesday afternoons since the snow had melted, and we were going to keep riding as long as we could. Pedaling into the parking lot, we saw several teams already warming up and spied the blue and white Rangers ball caps on field number three.

“I hear Coach Ramsey has a surprise today,” Jose said as we passed the concession stand. “Wonder what it is. Popcorn? Ice cream?”

“Do you ever think of anything besides food?” I asked.

“I can’t help it. I’m starvin’!”

“You can come over for dinner,” I reminded him. Jose was a frequent guest at our dinner table. His dad lived out of state, and his mom worked a lot. He probably spent more time at my house than his own. He didn’t have a rough home life. He had the best of everything there, except for a father.

“I can’t,” Jose said, propping his bike against the fence behind the bench. “Mom’s working late. She wants to see if I can stay home by myself for a few hours without burning the house down. Plus, I have to do the laundry. My uniform’s dirty.”

“Laundry!” I said, slapping my knee. “Dude, we’ve got to get you on the ball field before you turn into a girl.”

Jose grinned broadly, and I knew I’d spoken too soon.

“And just where’s a girl belong, nerdface?”

I turned around to see Danielle Baker, her brown hair dangling below her cap and onto her crossed arms and clenched fists.

“Why … right there on the pitcher’s mound, Danny,” I squirmed.

“The name’s not Danny,” she said, digging her fingernails into my forearm. “It’s Danielle. Get it right, nerdface!”

Last year, anyone who called Danny by her real name would have gotten a knuckle sandwich. But over the winter, she’d changed her tune.

“Danielle, it is,” I said as I pried my arm from her fingers.

“And don’t you forget it,” she said before spitting a wad of bubble gum at my feet and stomping off.

Jose and I looked at each other and pretended to shake in fear. Of course, I was only half-pretending.

Coach Ramsey stood at the left-field fence chatting with a muscular man in a tan golf shirt. He was the exact opposite of Coach, who got most of his exercise on his riding lawn mower.

Coach Ramsey coached his son Ryan’s soccer, basketball, and baseball teams. Dad said he wasn’t much of a coach. However, he knew just enough to keep the attention of the team—most of the time anyway. Sure, Dad knew a lot more about baseball than Coach Ramsey, but Dad didn’t have the patience to spend three or four evenings a week with a group of twelve-year-olds.

The man in the golf shirt walked along the fence and made his way in front of the bench. He moved slowly with a limp.

“Gentlemen … and, ladies,” Coach Ramsey started, nodding at Danielle. She smiled back, then turned to me and glared.

“We all know we need help with our hitting. We know that I’m probably not the best teacher.” Coach turned to the man in the golf shirt. “Meet Mark Wilcox,” he said.

“That’s Mark Wilcox,” I whispered, nudging Jose. Mark Wilcox played left field for the Chicago White Sox. He had led the American League in batting average a few times, and he had won several Gold Glove Awards. What’s he doing in Brightsport? I thought.

“Mr. Wilcox, as you probably know, is a professional baseball player,” Coach explained. “He’s one of the best hitters in the sport, and he’s in Brightsport with the Colts this season.”

The Colts were Brightsport’s Double-A minor-league team, two steps down from the majors. Even though I followed the Colts closely, I hadn’t heard that Mark Wilcox was on the team. I knew he had hurt his knee in Chicago, though. He was trying to work his way back into the majors.

“Alright, boys,” Mark started. Danielle cleared her throat but didn’t get his attention. “I hear you need some help hitting, especially in the clutch. I’m going to help you out as much as I can.” He paused and looked at his knee. “I seem to have some spare time on my hands. … So let’s get started.”

When it came to practicing, baseball could be boring—too much standing around. But with Mark Wilcox on hand, I kept myself in the action by shagging fly balls. I started to think we’d need the lights before I’d get my chance to bat.

Finally, Coach Ramsey called me in, and I grabbed a beaten-up aluminum bat and helmet from the equipment bag. Dad didn’t let me carry my expensive bat when I rode my bike to practice.

I swung and missed at a few baseballs shot from the pitching machine before Mark stepped in to talk to me.

“Get the right posture,” he said, pushing my feet apart and forcing me to lift my shoulders. “The rest is in your head.” Slowly crouching but keeping his injured leg extended to the side, Mark stared directly into my eyes and pointed two fingers at his own.

“Use your eyes,” he said. “Never take your eyes off the ball. Count the stitches while the ball is coming to the plate.”

Obviously, Mark had never stepped to the plate against Zach Neal.

In just a few minutes, Mark taught me more about hitting than Dad ever had. By the end of practice, I made solid contact with nearly every pitch. But I still didn’t hit one out of the infield.

“Strength and distance will come,” Mark said. “Don’t try to kill the ball. Work on your form.”

I shifted my stance and waited for the next pitch. “Ping!” I lined the ball hard to third base, where Danielle was busy chewing bubble gum.

“Nerdface!” she shouted as the ball bounced off her knee. “Tell me when you’re gonna hit the ball like that!”

I couldn’t believe I was hitting it at all.

*****

I raced home from practice without waiting for Jose. “When’s Dad going to be home?” I shouted before I even shut the door behind me.

“It’ll be a few days, Sweetie,” Mom yelled from the laundry room. “Remember, he’s out of town.”

I hated it when Mom called me “Sweetie,” but I tolerated it when none of my friends were around.

I walked into the laundry room and picked up a towel. “Well, I need to show him what I learned at practice.”

“You could always show me,” she said.

“You don’t know anything about baseball.”

Mom put her hands on her hips.

“Really? I was a baseball wife for three years,” she quickly retorted.

“Back then, maybe,” I said. “But baseball has changed.”

Mom paused. “You bet it has. And not for the better,” she said. “We didn’t worry about things like steroids back then. I’m glad the majors finally banned them.”

I didn’t need a steroids lecture. We got plenty of those in health class, and I could hardly turn on the Sports Network without seeing a story about some major-leaguer who had juiced up in the past. Everyone knew steroids were bad news.

“We have a major-league all-star helping us out,” I said. “Mark Wilcox—ever heard of him?”

Mom dropped her hands from her hips. “Mark Wilcox? From the White Sox?”

“Yep, that’s him.”

“What’s he doing in Brightsport?” she asked.

“Says he’s in the minors rehabbing his knee. He’ll probably be going back to Chicago before the season is over.”

Mom looked at me like she did the time I had played catch with an autographed baseball from Dad’s trophy case.

“Your father is not going to be happy,” she said and walked upstairs, leaving a basket of laundry on the floor.

What did she mean by that? I thought. I had actually learned something about hitting and a major-leaguer was teaching me.

I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and walked to the living room to catch the end of the White Sox game on TV. They were playing the Angels. As I watched an Angels batter fly out to left field, baseball suddenly seemed more important—a little more personal. After all, Mark Wilcox was my pal!

I
t was raining Wednesday morning, so Mom drove me to school. But by the end of the day, the sun had dried out the schoolyard. Even though it was only a mile or so home, the bus took the long way, so I ran instead. I wanted to get to the field early for our game with the Hornets.

Mom startled me when I came in the house.

“I thought you were working,” I said.

“I decided to take off,” she said, holding up a shirt from her closet that matched my Rangers uniform. “I have to see how all that practice paid off. And Dad will be calling tonight. This time, I can tell him about the game.”

Mom didn’t usually go to my games, and that was just as well. A kid didn’t want to hear his mother yelling “Sweetie” from the bleachers after he struck out. Mom didn’t realize a ballplayer had a reputation to hold up. This time, though, I was sure I would get a hit, and I wanted Mom to see it. Dad wouldn’t believe me.

I rushed into my room and grabbed my game jersey. Again, I paused and looked at Dad’s trophy case and the empty green patch in the middle. Maybe one day I
will
fill that space, I thought.

The game with the Hornets started slowly, and we both batted three-up and three-down in the first inning.

Our best pitcher behind Danielle was Ryan Ramsey, the coach’s son. In the top of the second, the tall left-hander walked a batter but kept the Hornets hitless. The score was still 0–0 when we came to bat.

Even though Coach Ramsey never used the same batting order twice, I always batted ninth. The way this game was going, I thought I might not get to bat until the next inning.

But the heart of the order came alive, and we quickly scored three runs. I walked to the on-deck circle with no outs. I was going to bat!

Our left fielder, Lucas Sanders, popped out to the second baseman. I stepped to the plate with one out and a runner on third. I might actually get an RBI, I thought. Concentrate—just make contact.

I stepped into the batter’s box and glanced at Mark standing next to the bench. He pointed to his eyes just like in practice.

“Count the stitches,” he mouthed silently.

“Here we go,” shouted Jimmy Lee from third base. “Drive me in, Chad!”

The Hornets pitcher stood on the mound, sighed deeply and looked to his teammates for encouragement.

“No batter!” the shortstop yelled. “Throw it down the middle.”

Just like the shortstop said, the ball came right over the plate. But I wasn’t about to swing at the first pitch. The umpire called it a strike before it even hit the catcher’s mitt.