José was after it like a gazelle. He knew he had to catch that ball or the game was over.
He dove, then felt the solid thud! as the ball landed squarely in his glove.
The crowd stood up, and clapped and cheered for a full minute.
On the next play, a grounder skittered through T.V.’s legs. A run scored, and the game was over. The Blockade Bulls beat the Peach Street Mudders, 8 to 7.
“It’s my fault we lost! My fault!” T.V. moaned as José caught up with him and they walked off the field together.
“Don’t sweat it, man!” José said. “It’s not the end of the world! Who’s perfect?”
He was thinking of his batting as he said it. One out of four was .250. Far, far from a .375 average. His father would never, never think much of him as a baseball player.
Suddenly he heard his name called. “José! Wait up!”
He turned.
“Dad!” he cried, surprised. “When did you get here?”
“At the beginning of the fourth inning,” Mr. Mendez said.
José’s face clouded. “Then you saw . . .” he started to say, but couldn’t go on. How could he face his father when he’d gotten out three out of four times at bat?
“What do you want to say, son?” Mr. Mendez asked, putting his arm across José’s shoulders.
“I wanted to make you proud of me,” José blurted out. “I know I’ve been messing up lately, but I thought if I could hit .375, like you did when you played in the minors, I could make up for disappointing you. I — I’m sorry, Dad. I know I’ve let you down.”
Mr. Mendez stopped short and looked down at José. “Is that why you’ve been so down in the mouth?” he exclaimed.
José sighed, then nodded.
“Listen, son,” Mr. Mendez said, “I may be disappointed when you go against my wishes — like you did when you hit Mrs. Dooley’s car — but I’m not disappointed in you. I trust you when you say you’re sorry, and that’s that. As far as Mrs. Dooley is concerned, I know you’ve worked hard to make it up to her. From what I hear,” he added, smiling, “you even applied a little extra elbow grease to her car the other day.”
José blushed.
Then Mr. Mendez took a deep breath and went on: “It’s been hard since Mom died . . . on all of us. I’ve had to depend on you and Carmen to pull your own weight . . . maybe too much.” He grinned. “I seem to have forgotten how hard it can be to concentrate on anything when it’s baseball season. Maybe we both need to be more aware of what the other person is feeling. I’ll try, if you will.”
José nodded happily.
“And one more thing. Forget about trying to hit like I did, okay? You don’t have to. You’re a born outfielder, José! You’ve made catches that I never would have been able to, not in a million years.”
José stared at him. “Really? You mean you . . . don’t mind that I can’t hit?”
José’s father chuckled. “’Can’t hit?’ If you call belting a grand slam homer not hitting, well, son, we’ve got to sit down and have a serious talk about the game of baseball! José, you’re a born ballhawk, so stop worrying about the hitting and concentrate on your fielding. That’s where your team needs you the most.”
José couldn’t believe his ears. All this time he had thought . . . But then he recalled the joyous cheers after each catch he had made that day and smiled.
“Thanks, Dad,” he murmured. “I never thought about that. I just figured the guys were being nice when they said they counted on me being in the outfield.” He glanced up at his father. “I like having people depend on me, Dad.”
His father squeezed his shoulder. “Come on. We’ll pick up some ice cream and celebrate those catches with Carmen. I understand she’s had a hard afternoon, smashing one homer after another for her team. Looks like both of you kids are a chip off the old block, eh?”
José laughed. He never felt better in his life as he walked with his father to the car.
I might never get a .375 average, he thought. But I’m a hit with my father, and that’s what counts the most.
More all-star action from the Peach Street Mudders
José Mendez is the best fielder on the Peach Street Mudders baseball team. But that‘s not enough for him. He wants to be a great batter, too, just like his father was when he played in the minor leagues. But every time José picks up the bat, disaster strikes. Will José ever be able to match his dad‘s .375 batting average? Or can he discover another way to be a hit with his father?
“The format in this easy-to-read chapter book is open and unintimidating; full-page black-and-white drawings add to the appeal.”
—School Library Journal
Matt Christopher is the name young readers turn to when they‘re looking for fast-paced, action-packed sports novels. For a list of all his titles, see the last pages of this book.
Centerfield Ballhawk Page 3
