“Come on, Andy!” I shout from the on-deck circle. “Come on, man!”
I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears. It started as soon as I put the batting helmet on, but at this point, I can’t tell if it’s fear that I’ll have to bat or fear that I won’t.
Over by the bench my teammates are cheering. Morgan and some of the other younger kids have their hats on inside out as rally caps. But all that matters is what Andy does at the plate. He gets a pitch to hit: pretty fast but fat. He’s late on it and fouls it back. The second pitch gets a lot of the plate, too, but he doesn’t take the bat off his shoulders.
He’s tight, I think. It’s not hard for me to recognize the signs these days. I wish there was something I could do about it.
“Come on, dingus!” I shout.
I don’t know if he hears me. Sometimes you don’t hear anything when you’re at the plate, and sometimes you hear everything. Whatever the case, his bat comes forward this time. With the count 0–2, you wouldn’t think the pitch would be anywhere near the strike zone. But Woosh must want to get this over with, because he throws a changeup over the plate. It’s a bad pitch because his fastball isn’t as fast now, so there’s not as much difference with the change.
Andy puts a swing on this one.
Lucky or good, which would you choose? Andy hits the lamest dying duck of a flare over the shortstop’s head. It’s coming down slowly but tailing away. Three different players — the shortstop, third baseman, and left fielder — look like they might have a shot at it. None of them quite get there. The thing lands in the grass between them and doesn’t even bounce.
Manny was running on contact with two outs and makes it to second easily. They don’t even bother with a throw to first. It’s such a weird play that it takes me a few seconds to realize that I’m up. Then it hits me like a tidal wave, and all I can do is direct my feet toward the plate and hope they know the way.
There are so many things I could think about. There’s the game situation: We’re behind by one and down to our final out. There are faceless nightmare pitchers and nasty real ones. I don’t have to look farther than the on-deck circle to see Malfoy. Woosh owned him last at-bat, so hitting me wouldn’t even be such a bad play for him.
There are trips to the hospital and “maybe minor concussions” and my parents in the stands and a dozen other things. And so you know what? I decide not to think about any of them. Here’s what I think: I think you’ve got to have a routine. I think that all the big leaguers on TV do, so I do, too.
I dig my front foot in. You know what I’m thinking about when I’m digging my foot in? I’m thinking about digging my foot in. Then I sit down on my back leg and take my practice swings.
Then the pitch comes in, and it’s junk, and I don’t swing at it. And even though the count’s just 1–0, I know he’s not going to want to fall any further behind. I know he wants this game over with. Not me. I realize this right then: I want another run. I want another at-bat.
Woosh takes some extra time, just like J.P. did last inning. He goes into his windup, and I feel that same panic. There’s nothing I can do about it, but as a wise man once said: Get over it.
The pitch is inside half … but it’s a changeup. I have time to react and put a swing on it. I don’t try to do too much. I just want to make a nice level swing, and that’s what I do.
It’s amazing how far those can go. I feel the contact: solid and sweet. I know it’s headed for deep center before I even look up. Two weeks ago, I would’ve stood there and watched it for a few seconds, like they do on TV.
Not now: I bust it out of the box. I have my head down and I’m hauling. I take a quick look out to center but don’t catch sight of the ball right away. As I near first, I look over and see Manny booking around third, heading for home. Andy is past second.
I look out and see the center fielder backpedaling as fast as he can. And then I see the ball and put my head back down. I’ve been playing outfield a long time, and as fast as their center fielder is moving, it’s not going to be fast enough. Heading toward second, I see Meacham coaching third. His arm is going like a propeller: Go! Go! Go!
It’s a two-run triple, and it gives us the lead. I don’t even know what to do once I get to third. Triples don’t grow on trees — and this one almost never happened. I feel like shouting, but I don’t. I feel like passing out, but I don’t do that, either. If I fell off the base, they could tag me out. I look around instead.
Katie is loosening up along the sideline. She tilts her cap up, and I see the flash of her eyes. For a second, we’re looking right at each other. Then she touches the tip of her nose with one finger. I smile: Hit it on the nose.
Coach Meacham comes up and pats me on the back. He’s downright friendly for about twelve seconds, which has to be a personal record. Then his son pops out to short. “Pathetic,” he spits.
I head in to get my glove and half the team smacks me on the head before I can get my batting helmet off. It occurs to me that I could get a minor concussion just from this, but it feels great.
“YESSSS!” says Andy before smashing both of his palms down on my poor helmet.
“This is all you, man,” I shout at him.
He probably thinks I mean because his hit kept the inning alive. But that’s only half of it. We both have a job to do now, though. We grab our gloves on the fly. We still have the bottom half of the inning to go.
Of course, there’s one other thing we’ve still got. J.P. intercepts me on my way out to left. He should really be on the mound already, but he’s here running alongside me. He doesn’t say anything, just taps my shoulder with his glove. I smile and tap him back.
As he goes into his windup a few minutes later, his face turns toward left. The infielders are already looking in, so I’m probably the only one who sees the little smile on his face. And that smile says plenty. It says, My teammate has given me another shot at this one. My head-case, ’fraid-o’-the-ball teammate has given me another shot. And then he turns and fires. That pitch, crisp as the first inning, says something else. It says, I got this.
I allow myself to look around as the ump calls the strike. I see my parents in the bleachers, leaning in for the call. I see the sun flash off the bronze of Katie’s ponytail as she takes a step to the side. And I see the green grass all around me: left field, my spot. I got this.
Michael Northrop spent twelve years chasing stories for Sports Illustrated Kids, the last five of those as baseball editor. His first novel, Gentlemen, earned him a Publishers Weekly Flying Start citation for a notable debut, and his second, Trapped, was an Indie Next List selection. He has also written short fiction for Weird Tales, the Notre Dame Review, and McSweeney’s. He now writes full-time from his home in New York City. You can visit Michael online at www.michaelnorthrop.net.
Copyright © 2012 by Michael Northrop
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Northrop, Michael.
Plunked / Michael Northrop. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixth-grader Jack Mogens loses his nerve after getting hit by a pitch, and has to dig deep within himself to avoid giving up the sport he loves.[1. Baseball — Fiction. 2. Schools — Fiction. 3. Fear — Fiction. 4. Perseverance (Ethics) — Fiction.]
PZ7.N8185Pl 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011032737
ISBN 978-0-545-29714-1
First edition, March 2012
Cover art & design by Christopher Stengel
e-ISBN 978-0-545-39307-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and r
etrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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