Kristy at Bat

by Ann M. Martin

  Vicki seemed bummed. “Thanks for the help,” she said. “But I’ll never be able to throw all the way from right field to second base, much less to home.”

  “Sure you can,” I said. “All it takes is practice.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “But I hate practice. It’s boring. Baseball is boring, if you want to know what I really think.”

  I was shocked. “But — I thought you loved it.” How could anyone not love baseball? Especially someone who was at Dream Camp?

  “I guess you’ve been listening to my dad,” she said ruefully. “He loves it. And he wants me to. But I just don’t. And I never will.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You must be miserable here.”

  “That’s an understatement,” said Vicki quietly.

  Just then, Gloria called out that she was about to hit one to Vicki. “Ready?” she cried.

  “Ready,” yelled Vicki, holding up her glove. She glanced at me as I began to move out of the way. “Don’t say anything about this to anyone,” she said. “I wouldn’t want my dad to feel he’d wasted his money bringing me here.”

  As I walked away, I looked toward the other group, the one working out with Matt. Mr. Sahadevan was practicing his slide into second base, and the smile on his face was enough to tell me that he was in heaven. He certainly did love baseball. I wondered if he could learn to deal with a daughter who didn’t.

  The morning hours flew by as we practiced hard and learned from Gloria. We did some more drills in the outfield and some batting, then traded places with Matt’s group and worked on baserunning and fielding strategies such as the double play. Gloria was full of tips and suggestions. I decided to change my batting stance based on what she told me. I had to admit that she was right about herself and Matt having “other strengths.” They were excellent coaches and teachers.

  I was running from first to second when I heard the sound of an engine. A small putt-putt type of engine. Everyone on the field turned to see what it was.

  We all watched as a white golf cart rolled across the field and stopped near home plate. A tall, tanned man stepped out from behind the wheel. “Hello, campers! I’m just here to announce that lunch is about to be served,” he said. Then he jumped back onto the cart and headed off.

  He’d looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. Then I spotted Watson, who had come in off the field with Matt’s group. One glance at his face — lit up and smiling like a ten-year-old’s — was enough to tell me.

  I’d just had my first look at Bill Bain.

  “Here’s my chance!” said Watson, jumping up from his chair. We’d barely sat down for lunch at a round table that we were sharing with Vicki and her dad. Gloria was sitting with us too.

  I was all ready to dig into my luscious-looking ham-and-Swiss sandwich (that day’s buffet featured a make-it-yourself deli sandwich bar) and salad, but Watson didn’t seem at all tempted by his food. Not once he’d spotted Bill Bain, who was sitting at a table across the room with Matt and a few other instructors.

  Watson stood for a second, working up his courage. Then, suddenly, he sat down again. “Maybe I’ll wait until later,” he said. Then he stood up. “No, I’ll do it now. Why wait?” He was holding onto the back of his chair, and I noticed that his knuckles were white.

  I had the feeling he wasn’t talking to any of us. Instead, he was debating the matter with himself.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and marched off across the room. Watson was going to meet his idol at last.

  “Is he a big fan?” Gloria asked, nodding toward Watson.

  “The biggest,” I said.

  She nodded without smiling. I noticed that she was watching closely as Watson approached Bill Bain. I was too. That’s why I have a pretty good idea about what happened, even though Watson has never actually spelled it out for me.

  I saw Watson walk up to the table where Bill Bain was sitting. I watched as he spoke, smiling shyly as he introduced himself (I could just imagine how his voice sounded — a little hoarse and tight) and stuck out his hand for a shake.

  I saw Bill Bain frown.

  I did not see Bill Bain put out his hand.

  And, while I couldn’t hear his exact words, it wasn’t hard to figure out what Bill Bain was saying to Watson. Something on the order of “Scram, kiddo.”

  I heard a “tsk” sound, and turned to see Gloria shaking her head. “Such a shame,” she murmured.

  Watson returned to the table a second later. His face was pink. He didn’t look at any of us. Instead, he stared into his plate of food.

  “Watson, are you okay?” I asked, putting out a hand to touch his arm.

  “I’m fine,” he said miserably. “I just feel kind of dumb. He’s a busy man, and he’s trying to eat his lunch. I shouldn’t have bothered him.”

  Gloria “tsk”-ed again.

  “What did he say?” I pressed. I hated to see Watson so unhappy.

  “Nothing, really,” Watson mumbled. He was still staring down at his food, and now he reached out and poked his sandwich.

  “Watson?” I asked softly.

  “He just let me know he doesn’t like being disturbed at mealtimes,” Watson said finally.

  “You’d think he’d be a little more friendly,” said Mr. Sahadevan indignantly. “After all, he’s the main reason some of us are here.”

  Watson shrugged. “I don’t suppose we can expect him to be our best pal, though,” he said. He sounded resigned.

  “Hmmph,” said Gloria. Except for the “tsks,” she’d been quiet up until then. Now she let loose. “Don’t you mind him. He’s an old grump. Especially lately. He just can’t accept the fact that he’s not as young as he once was. He can’t throw as hard, he can’t hit as far, he can’t even see the ball as well.”

  “I can relate to that,” put in Mr. Sahadevan with a little laugh.

  “We all can,” said Gloria. “And just imagine how much worse it would be if you were once the brightest star in the league. It can’t be easy to see all that slip away.” She paused. “But I’m not making excuses. I think the man should learn to make peace with himself. It would make life a lot more pleasant for everyone around him.”

  Watson had been listening closely. He looked a little less devastated now. “I — I guess I feel a little sorry for him,” he said thoughtfully.

  “I know I do,” said Gloria. She smiled at Watson. “Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “I’m sure you’ll have a chance to talk to him before camp is over. And when he wants to be, he can be a real nice guy.”

  Watson smiled back. Then he reached down, picked up his sandwich, and took a big bite.

  I was glad to see it.

  Vicki spoke up. “Were you really with the Georgia Peaches?” she asked Gloria shyly. “That must have been so cool.”

  Gloria laughed. “It was, honey, it was. Oh, those were the days.” She closed her eyes and smiled.

  “You must have been an awesome player,” I said.

  She shrugged. “There were a lot of great gals in the league. I wasn’t the best.”

  “But you must have been very talented to make it onto the team,” said Watson.

  “My daddy always said I was a natural,” she confessed. “I had three brothers, but he spent all his time coaching me. And boy, were they jealous.” She giggled.

  “So you learned the game from your dad,” I said. Just like me.

  She nodded. “At first. Then I just played as much as I could. I begged the boys to let me play with them. In the beginning they didn’t want to let me because I was a girl. Later, they didn’t want to let me because I was so much better than most of them.” She giggled again. “But I wore them down.”

  “How did you end up on the Georgia Peaches?” I asked.

  “Well, the league sent scouts all over the country,” she explained. “And I made sure that more than one of them saw me play. I did my research and found out who they were and where they were headed. Then I made it my business to show them my
stuff.”

  “Wow,” said Vicki admiringly.

  She really seemed impressed. Maybe Gloria’s story would inspire her.

  I knew it was inspiring me. If Bill Bain was Watson’s hero, maybe Gloria Kemp would turn out to be mine. She was a take-charge woman, somebody who knew what she wanted and did what it took to make sure she got it.

  I thought again of the way I’d played at tryouts the week before and felt ashamed. Maybe I didn’t deserve a heroine like Gloria. I mean, if I’d been around when the women’s league was being formed I would have probably tried out for it — and made second string.

  Ugh.

  “Maybe Vicki will be the first female player in the majors,” said Mr. Sahadevan. “She has plenty of natural talent herself.” He smiled proudly at his daughter.

  Vicki rolled her eyes and blushed. “Dad!” she protested.

  “What?” he asked. “You’re my little ballplayer. Remember how you used to slam that Wiffle ball all the way across the yard?”

  “That was when I was seven, Dad,” Vicki said quietly. “This is now. I can’t hit a hardball across the infield.”

  “Sure you can, sure you can,” said Mr. Sahadevan.

  I wondered if he’d been watching Vicki play. I liked her a lot, but she was no superstar. I glanced at Watson and gave him a tiny, private smile. I thought gratefully that he would never in a million years boast about me in public that way. Not that he wasn’t proud of my accomplishments. He’d just never embarrass me the way that Mr. Sahadevan was embarrassing Vicki.

  Tactfully, Gloria jumped in to change the subject. Glancing at her watch, she said, “How about moving back out to the ball field? We have plenty of time for a game this afternoon. I’ll go round up the rest of our group.”

  We finished lunch quickly and headed out to the field. I was feeling a few butterflies in my stomach at the thought of playing for real. Vicki seemed even more nervous. “Now everyone’s going to see exactly how much ‘natural talent’ I have,” she said.

  “Just relax and try to enjoy it,” I said. “Maybe you’ll even end up having fun.”

  She looked unconvinced. I couldn’t blame her. After all, I wasn’t exactly ready to “relax and enjoy it” myself.

  But I did. I couldn’t help it. There’s just nothing better than a game of baseball on a warm, sunny day. There was that thwack again, as balls flew into gloves. And the crack of the bat, and the thrill of running the bases.

  Vicki and I were on the same team, which was a good thing. Her dad, on the other team, seemed too busy soaking up Matt’s advice and tips to pay much attention to Vicki. But I was able to give her a few hints on batting — Gloria helped too — and she ended up hitting a good, solid single.

  I was proud of her — and jealous. I couldn’t hit at all. I don’t know if it was the bat I was using, or the fact that I was nervous, or what. But the only contact I made that afternoon was a pathetic little pop-up that the pitcher caught without even trying.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” said Gloria, patting my arm after I’d struck out for the last time. “It’s just a little slump. Happens to everyone.”

  Matt said the same thing when I was helping him and one of the staffers gather up the equipment at the end of the game. “You’ll have a better day tomorrow,” he said, sounding confident. “You have a terrific swing and a good eye. Your timing was just a little off today. Forget about it.”

  I tried to. I went for a swim with Vicki, then changed for dinner. After another excellent meal, I was ready to head back to our room for some reading and bed. Watson seemed to feel the same way. He went straight into his room when we returned to our suite.

  But when I was alone in my room, I didn’t pick up my book. Instead, I lay back on my bed to think.

  First I thought about my hitting “slump.” I hoped Gloria and Matt were right about its being temporary.

  Then my thoughts began to drift. I wondered if my dad had ever gone through a slump, and how he had dealt with it. Then I wondered what my dad would think if he could see me now, hanging out with Bill Bain and Matt Adamec and Gloria Kemp. After all, baseball’s stars were his heroes too. What would he think if he knew I was playing with them, learning from them — and still striking out?

  I turned over on my side and faced the wall.

  Why did I care what he would think anyway?

  My dad, who had abandoned me. Why was I even spending so much time thinking about him lately?

  Watson was the one who’d invited me to camp, the one who cared about me. I felt disloyal thinking about my dad. How would Watson feel if he knew I cared so much about what some figure from my past would think of me?

  I turned over again. I felt awful. I wanted to stop thinking about all of it. I sat up and reached for the phone. I had to read the directions to figure out how to make a long-distance call, but soon I’d dialed and the phone was ringing at home.

  Nobody picked up. Or, rather, the answering machine did. I hung up and called Mary Anne instead. I needed to hear a friendly voice. Besides, it was time to find out how things were going back in Stoneybrook.

  Mary Anne was working on her BSC notebook entry when I called. She had a lot to tell me about her afternoon with David Michael. And not all of it was good. For a moment, after speaking to her, I wondered if I should go home. How could I stay at Dream Camp when David Michael needed me? But then I came to my senses. If I couldn’t trust my BSC friends to help straighten things out, who could I trust?

  When Mary Anne arrived at my house on Wednesday afternoon, she found a very excited David Michael. He was her only charge that day: Karen and Andrew had play dates, and Nannie was taking Emily Michelle to a birthday party.

  “Guess what, Mary Anne,” David Michael said as soon as they’d seen Nannie and Emily Michelle off.

  “Um, you have a dinosaur in your backyard?” guessed Mary Anne.

  David Michael laughed and shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Guess again.”

  “Let’s see,” she said. “Did you win a million dollars in a contest?”

  “Uh-uh. Never mind, you’ll never guess. I’ll tell you. Mom took me shopping and helped me buy something so, so great.”

  “Cool!” said Mary Anne. “What is it?”

  “I’ll show you,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the living room. There, spread out on the floor, were dozens of plastic pages, filled with baseball cards. “It’s a Super-Mega Baseball Card Collector’s Set. The best one they make! And I used my own allowance money to pay for it. Well, Mom helped a little.”

  “Wow,” said Mary Anne.

  David Michael threw himself down on the floor and began to riffle through the card-filled plastic sheets. “It came with a value guide, so I’ve been looking up all my cards to see what they’re worth,” he explained.

  Mary Anne sat down next to him. “And?”

  “I don’t have too many valuable cards,” David Michael admitted. “But I can trade. I know I have some that other kids will want.” He held one up. “Like this Chris Russell card. He only played one year for the Mariners, and now he’s a football player. So everybody wants to have his card.”

  Mary Anne nodded. “I see,” she said. But, as she told me later, she didn’t really see. The idea of baseball cards being valuable seemed silly to her. She could see how it might be fun to collect them and even trade them. If you happened to be even one bit interested in baseball, which she isn’t. But she’d heard that some kids only cared about the financial value of their cards, and that seemed weird to her. Still, David Michael sounded so happy. She wasn’t about to say anything negative about his new interest.

  “So, it looks as though this kit will really help you organize your cards,” she said.

  “Definitely,” said David Michael. “I’ve been working on that. I’m almost done!” He showed her how the plastic holders fit into a notebook, and how he’d kept a separate list of every card and its value.

  “You’ve been busy,” said
Mary Anne admiringly. Since she’s such an organized person herself, she was impressed.

  “It’s fun,” said David Michael. “And I wanted to be ready for this afternoon. There’s another card swap at SES. Mom said I could go, if you didn’t mind taking me.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” said Mary Anne.

  “Yes!” said David Michael, pumping a fist in the air. “I’ll be ready in just a few minutes.” He began to work furiously, sliding his cards into their proper places. “I want to get there in time to make some really good trades.”

  Mary Anne could tell she’d be absolutely no help to him, since she doesn’t know Willie Mays from Michael Jordan. So she just watched him work. Soon, David Michael said he was ready to go. He held up his new kit proudly and carefully. “This looks so much better than that old shoe box,” he said.

  Mary Anne agreed that it looked good, though privately she thought the shoe box had probably been fine.

  During the walk to SES — more of a trot, really, since David Michael was in a hurry — he chattered on and on about the cards he had, the cards he wanted to trade for, the cards he dreamed of having one day. Then, just as they’d almost reached the school, he stopped in his tracks. “Oh, no!” he said. “I forgot to bring my value guide.”

  “Want to go back?” asked Mary Anne, hoping he would say no, since it would be a long walk.

  “There isn’t time,” he said. “But that’s okay. I know what everything’s worth. I can make good trades.”

  “Are you sure?”

  David Michael nodded. “Definitely. I just spent two whole days looking over these cards.” He sounded confident.

  “Okay,” said Mary Anne. She noticed a group of kids clustered near the swings. “Look, is that the card-trading group?”

  David Michael nodded. Mary Anne could see how excited he was. He ran to meet the other kids. “Look!” he said, holding up the kit as he joined the group.

  “Oh, excellent,” Jake was saying as Mary Anne caught up. “That’s the new Super-Mega kit, isn’t it?”