Kristy at Bat

by Ann M. Martin

  “You are so lucky,” said Jackie. “I’ve been dying to buy one of those. But I haven’t saved up enough for it yet.”

  The other kids gathered around, reaching out to touch the kit and asking questions about it. They seemed really impressed, and Mary Anne said David Michael glowed with satisfaction. The only one who didn’t gush over David Michael’s new kit, Mary Anne noticed, was Barry. She recognized him from the description in Claudia’s notebook entry. He was hanging back a little, wearing a bored expression.

  David Michael didn’t seem to notice that Barry was playing it cool. He just drank up all the attention. He demonstrated every feature of the kit, then showed off each page of his collection, describing the highlights.

  “So, who wants to do some trading?” he asked finally.

  The kids swung into action. Everybody brought out their collections, sat down in the grass, and began the delicate process of trading. The group broke into twos and threes as kids discussed possible trades, negotiating carefully before they made any definite deals.

  Mary Anne watched in wonder. She’d never seen anything quite like it. There was no money changing hands. The rule for the swaps was trades only. But the kids seemed to know exactly what they had and what they wanted. She couldn’t believe how much they knew about the cards and the players they represented.

  “I’ll trade you one Mitchell Vance plus a Billy Parker for that Carlos Perez,” Buddy told David Michael. “Vance didn’t make it in the majors, but he may be back. And the Billy Parker would complete your Blue Jays set.”

  “But Perez is worth more than that,” David Michael protested. “He was MVP last season.”

  Buddy shook his head. “Okay,” he said, smiling. “How about if I toss in a Matt Fox? Isn’t he one of your favorite players?”

  David Michael looked tempted. “Hmm. Well, okay,” he said finally. “After all, I have another Carlos Perez.” He squinted at Buddy. “Carlos Perez for Mitchell Vance, Billy Parker, and Matt Fox. Right?”

  “Right,” said Buddy.

  “Okay, it’s a trade,” said David Michael.

  Each of them eased the cards out of their plastic holders and handed them over. Then they grinned and shook hands. “Good one,” said Buddy.

  Mary Anne had had no idea the process was so complicated. She watched with interest as David Michael turned to his next trade, with Laurel. This one was less serious. Laurel was trying to collect all the baseball players named Joe. David Michael was able to trade her one Joe Rooney for a Curtis Johnson and a Shawn Williams.

  Just as they were shaking hands, Barry approached David Michael. “Nice deal,” he said, nodding at the cards David Michael was holding. “That Curtis Johnson may end up being worth something one day.”

  “Really?” David Michael asked. “Cool.”

  “So, I have a great deal for you today, to celebrate your new kit,” said Barry. “I noticed you have a Felipe Martinez. I need that card to complete my Dodgers set.”

  “So?” said David Michael. “What are you offering?”

  Mary Anne had to smile to herself.

  “Just this,” said Barry, holding up a card. “A mint-condition Charlie Lawson.”

  “Wow,” breathed David Michael. “He’s, like, one of the greats. I’ve been wanting that card for a while.” He’d lost the tough-guy stance completely. Then he caught himself. “I mean, everybody wants a Charlie Lawson in their set. But I don’t know. I need that Felipe Martinez too. I don’t have another one of those.”

  Again, Mary Anne was impressed with how shrewd David Michael could be.

  “Hmm,” said Barry. “Okay, tell you what. How about if I give you two Charlie Lawsons? You can use one to trade for some other good cards. Like you said, everybody wants a Charlie Lawson.”

  David Michael couldn’t resist the offer. “Okay,” he said. “It’s a deal.” He and Barry swapped cards.

  Soon afterward, the trading session ended and David Michael and Mary Anne headed home. On the way, he talked nonstop about the great trades he’d made. He was feeling pretty proud of himself.

  Until, that is, he arrived home and checked his value guide.

  The card he’d traded to Barry was worth about ten times the cards Barry had given to him. Barry had won the trading game by playing it cool.

  David Michael had been had. And he wasn’t happy about it at all.

  On Thursday morning, our third day at Dream Camp, Watson was still poking around in his bathrobe and I was eager to get going. “Watson, you’re going to miss breakfast if you don’t hurry,” I told him.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s okay, though. I could stand to skip a meal now and then.” He patted his stomach. “You know, it’s not so easy to stay slim when you’re my age.” He sighed.

  Now, you don’t know Watson the way I do, but if you did you’d understand how strange that sounded, coming from him. Watson’s always saying things like, “You’re only as old as you feel.” Age has never been an issue with him.

  I gave him a Look. “Come on,” I said. “You love those blueberry pancakes they’ve been serving. I bet there’ll still be some left if we hurry. You’ll be exercising all day, so you don’t have to worry about what you eat.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Although the way I play, I’m not so sure you can call it exercise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I’m pretty slow,” he said. “Haven’t you noticed? It takes me forever to run around the bases. And I have trouble sprinting for those long fly balls.”

  I waved a hand at him. “Don’t be silly. You’re looking great out there. Come on, put on your uniform and let’s go to breakfast.”

  “I wonder if Bill Bain will be there this morning,” he said. I saw him glance at his pile of memorabilia, then shake his head.

  Something in his voice told me that Watson was feeling very different about Bill Bain than he had when we first arrived at camp. It made me sad. I had the feeling that Watson would prefer that Bill Bain wasn’t at breakfast.

  It wasn’t easy, but I finally hauled Watson down to the dining room and then, after breakfast, out to the playing field. He seemed to have lost all his enthusiasm for camp.

  Bill Bain, by the way, did not show up at breakfast. Or if he did, he’d left by the time we arrived.

  On the field, Matt was having his usual organizational problems, while Gloria was being monopolized by Mr. Sahadevan, who wanted her to work with Vicki on catching grounders.

  I jumped in to help Matt. It was just a matter of deciding how to break up our group and planning which part of the field each smaller group would use for warm-ups and drills.

  “Thanks, Kristy,” Matt said, once we’d written out a plan on his clipboard. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  That was nice to hear.

  Of course, I would rather have been hearing some other things: “Great catch, Kristy,” for instance, or “Excellent hit, Thomas!” But those compliments were just not coming my way. As the morning went on, I had to admit that I was still not playing as well as I knew I could.

  Vicki was struggling too. “Gloria’s a great coach,” she told me while we were tossing a ball around. “But I just can’t seem to do the things she tells me to do.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard when you think about it too much,” I said. “You have to keep so many ideas in your head when you’re making a catch: how to be in the right place, how to hold your glove, when to reach for the ball, stuff like that. And that’s only for practice. In a game situation, you also have to think about which bases the runners are on, how many outs there are, and where you’re going to throw the ball.”

  “Eesh,” said Vicki.

  “I know,” I said. “Anyway, what I do sometimes during practice sessions is concentrate on one thing at a time. I say to myself, ‘For the next three catches I’m just going to think about my glove position.’ And for the three after that, I’ll think about my body placement. After all, it’s just practice. Th
at’s what it’s for. To work on things. So it doesn’t really matter if you don’t make the catch.”

  Vicki was nodding. “I see,” she said.

  “That’s a great idea,” said another girl, who’d been listening. Her dad, who was standing nearby, nodded.

  “You must be a coach back home,” he said. “I notice you’re always full of good advice and ideas.”

  I blushed. “Thanks. I do a little coaching.” It was nice to know I’d been helpful.

  We broke for lunch soon after that. As we were walking to the dining room, I asked Watson how he’d liked the morning’s practice.

  “It was good,” he said.

  I glanced at him. “That’s all? Just ‘good’?” Yesterday, Watson couldn’t stop raving about how much he’d learned. Matt was the greatest teacher. Gloria was the kindest, most patient coach. Dream Camp was the best place in the world.

  Until today. When it was just “good.”

  Watson didn’t say much more. He seemed lost in his thoughts, as if he were sleepwalking.

  Was it Bill Bain? Or something more? Watson seemed to be thinking a lot about his age. Was Dream Camp making him realize he wasn’t a kid anymore? It couldn’t have helped that his childhood hero treated him so shabbily. And then to feel as if he weren’t as fast as he used to be, or as strong — that must be hard. I realized that Watson probably hadn’t played baseball regularly for a long time, not since he was quite a bit younger. He was out of practice. And — there was no getting around it — he was older. You don’t see too many major league baseball players Watson’s age. To be really good, you need sharp eyes and a strong body.

  But Watson wasn’t trying out for the major leagues. He was just here to play ball and have a good time. I wanted to remind him of that, but I wasn’t sure how. I could see that he was going through a hard time, but I didn’t know how to help.

  Bill Bain wasn’t at lunch. Watson didn’t appear to care. If anything, he looked relieved. He concentrated on eating his food. A couple of times Mr. Sahadevan tried to start a conversation, but Watson didn’t seem to feel like talking, even when another dad brought up the topic of Bill Bain. It was Mr. Ireland, one of the men in our practice group. He’s just about Watson’s age. He was sitting at our table, along with his daughter Jane, and he began to reminisce. “Does anybody remember when Bain was on the Carson show?” he asked.

  I looked at Watson, expecting him to light up. He didn’t. In fact, he ignored the question. And while Mr. Ireland told everyone the story, Watson didn’t seem to be listening.

  Then Mr. Ireland moved on to some other Bill Bain stories, ones I’d heard a million times from Watson. Some of his details were wrong, but Watson didn’t correct him, even when he quoted a lifetime batting average that was way too low.

  Finally, Watson just changed the subject. “Anyone seen that movie about exploration on Mars?” he asked. “I hear it’s very good.”

  I was shocked. Nobody else seemed to notice, but I sure did. Watson was having a hard time, indeed, if he didn’t want to talk about Bill Bain.

  Back on the field after lunch, we divided up into teams (well, I divided us) and began to play a game. Again, it felt good to play, but I noticed that even though we’d been practicing as a group for several days, we weren’t a team yet. We just hadn’t quite come together. It’s funny about teams. Sometimes the team spirit comes quickly, almost right away. Sometimes it can take forever. And it’s an incredibly important thing. Playing with a group of people who are truly a team is a great feeling. I hoped it could still happen for us.

  Maybe people were just distracted. I know I was. At one point, when I was in the outfield, I began daydreaming again about my dad. I was imagining what it would be like if he were at Dream Camp with me. I pictured him playing shortstop. If I caught a long pop-up, I’d have to throw it to him.

  Just then, a real long pop-up came my way. So what did I do? I dropped it. Totally messed up the catch. Then, when I tried to scoop it up and throw it into the infield, I stumbled and fell. By the time I finally picked up the ball and threw it, the runner was on third.

  And Bill Bain was on the field.

  He’d seen everything. How embarrassing.

  He was standing near home plate, talking to Matt as he watched us play. I looked at Watson, who was playing left field, to see if he’d noticed Bill Bain’s presence. Of course he had. He was watching closely, to see what Bill Bain would do.

  Nothing, as it turned out.

  He did pick up a bat for a moment. He even swung it a few times. I saw Watson’s face light up for the first time in awhile. Was Bill Bain going to step up to home plate and show us what he could do?

  No.

  He put down the bat, gave Matt a little salute, and walked off the field. That was that. Our big visit from Bill Bain.

  After he left, our team made the final out of the inning and came up to bat. I was up first. And guess what? I made a terrific hit. A triple. Way over the right fielder’s head. It felt great. Matt ran to third base to meet me and give me a high five. And Gloria whistled and waved. In fact, everybody on the field gave me a round of applause. Even Watson seemed to come to life as he flashed me a thumbs-up.

  It was a really good hit.

  I wished Bill Bain had seen it.

  I wished Coach Wu had seen it.

  I wished my dad had seen it.

  “I wish I had that on videotape,” Watson said, shaking his head. “That was some hit.”

  “Thanks,” I said, blushing. We were on our way to dinner that night, and Watson wouldn’t stop talking about my triple. He was really proud of me and kept telling me so. That made me feel great — and guilty. After all, I’d been fantasizing about how proud my dad would have been. Watson’s opinion was the one that should have meant more to me.

  “You made a couple of excellent catches today,” I told him, trying to change the subject. “Don’t think I didn’t notice!”

  Watson shrugged. “Pure luck.”

  “Watson, you’re a good player,” I said, frustrated. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “I’m not. It’s just that the past few days have taught me to lower my expectations. About my own performance, for one thing. I’m not a kid anymore, and I can accept that.” He didn’t sound so upset about it now. It was as if he’d done a lot of thinking that day and had come to terms with things. “And I’ve lowered my expectations about Bill Bain,” Watson went on. “I mean, did I really think we’d become buddies this week? That would be ridiculous. It’s good just to be at his camp.”

  Watson sounded a lot less sure about that. I had a feeling he was trying to convince himself — and me — that it didn’t matter whether Bill Bain was friendly or not.

  I had trouble buying that. I was starting to feel angry at Bill Bain. It didn’t seem right that he had hardly appeared so far at the camp bearing his name. I understood that he couldn’t do all the coaching, or spend hours with each camper, but he could have at least showed his face a little more often.

  It was as if he’d read my mind. When we arrived at the dining room, I noticed Bill Bain right away. I had to give him points for coming to dinner. But not too many points. He didn’t mingle with the campers at all. He stayed at the staff table, avoiding eye contact with anyone who gave any sign of being ready to approach him. I noticed that because I watched him. I was glad Watson didn’t approach him again. I had the feeling Bill Bain would have been just as rude as he had been the first time.

  I know Watson saw him. He and Mr. Sahadevan even talked about the fact that Bill Bain had come to dinner. But I don’t think Watson even considered trying to talk to him. Instead, he concentrated on his dinner and the conversation at our table.

  We were sitting, as usual, with Vicki and her dad. Gloria, who had become a regular at our table, had joined us as well. I loved hearing her stories about playing for the Georgia Peaches. She made us laugh so hard sometimes that people at other tables just stared. That night she was telling us
about a series of practical jokes “the girls” played on their coach, Billy Mason. It had all started because he’d come down a little too hard on the shortstop, Betty. Betty had messed up a crucial play and the Peaches had lost a game. The coach, who was normally a nice guy, had lost his temper.

  “We had to teach him a lesson,” Gloria said. “We didn’t want him thinking he could treat us that way and live to tell the tale. So we put soap in his beer.” She said it matter-of-factly.

  “Naturally,” said Mr. Sahadevan. “Soap in the beer. What else could he expect?”

  “That’s what we thought,” said Gloria. “But he retaliated by telling the restaurant staff at our next hotel to spike our breakfast eggs with hot sauce.”

  “Bet that taught you,” said Watson.

  “It sure did,” said Gloria. “It taught us to try even harder. Before long, there was an all-out war going on.”

  “Who won?” asked Vicki.

  “Who do you think, honey?” Gloria replied, raising her eyebrows. “We did, of course. A bunch of sweet little girls who looked like they wouldn’t hurt a fly. We had that Billy Mason begging for mercy by the time we were done with him. He promised never to lose his temper again. And he never did.”

  “What about the shortstop?” I asked.

  “Funny thing about her,” said Gloria, with a faraway smile. “Betty never messed up a play like that again either. And she ended up marrying Billy Mason.”

  “How romantic,” said Vicki. “So they lived happily ever after.”

  “And played jokes on each other all the time,” added Gloria, laughing. “It was a way of life for them.”

  “Does Betty still play baseball?” I asked.

  “Only with her grandchildren,” said Gloria. “And whenever we have a team reunion.”

  Just then the waiters brought around our dessert. I haven’t said too much about the food at camp, but take it from me — it was the greatest. For example, for dinner that night we’d had a choice between steak, grilled salmon, or chicken cordon bleu. I’d picked the chicken, because it sounded so exotic. It turned out to be chicken wrapped around cheese, with some ham in there too. It was awesome. Now, for dessert, they were handing out huge slabs of chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and raspberry sauce.