District Doubleheader

by Matt Christopher

  Liam thought if he could get his sister to help him, he’d be one step closer to his own fresh start. But Melanie hadn’t agreed to his trade-off yet.

  “And after you help me with my lines?” she prodded.

  He groaned. “I’ll partner with you so you can learn that stupid dance routine. Satisfied?”

  “Very.” She quickly braided her hair into a long rope down her back. “Now, what do I have to do?”

  Liam positioned her in a worn-out spot on the grass. “Stand here. Throw the ball there.” He pointed to the strike zone outline of the pitch back he’d set up a short distance away. “I’m going to hit it and—”

  “Hang on! I’ll be standing right here and you’re going to hit the ball at me?!”

  Liam rolled his eyes. “It’s a Wiffle ball! It might sting if it hits you, but that’s it.”

  “Still…” Melanie disappeared into the garage. When she returned, she was wearing Liam’s catcher’s mask.

  “How do you see through this thing?” She staggered like a zombie. “Or stand the smell? It’s like I’m locked in a cage with a jar of boy-stink.”

  Finally, she returned to her spot. “Ready?”

  Liam picked up his bat and got into his stance. “Ready.”

  She threw the first pitch—underhand.

  “Melanie, come on. Quit kidding around! This is important to me!”

  “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she asked, pushing the mask off her face. “Why the need to practice hitting all of a sudden?”

  Liam twirled his bat, considering his answer. “When you audition, you do your best to impress the director so you’ll get the role you want, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I’m trying to impress the people who choose the All-Star team.”

  “By making hits?”

  “By making home runs. More than anyone else, hopefully.”

  Melanie gave a low whistle. “That’s a pretty lofty goal, little brother.”

  “So’s trying to be a big-time actress,” he shot back.

  She held up her hands. “Hey, I didn’t say it wasn’t possible! But let me pass along some advice from my drama coaches: As you climb the ladder, be careful where you step.”

  Liam screwed up his face. “That sounds like something out of a fortune cookie. What does it even mean?”

  “Think it over. You’ll get it. And when you do, keep it in mind, okay?” She replaced the mask and picked up another Wiffle ball. “Ready?”

  Liam nodded. This time, the pitch came in overhand and right on target. Liam swung. Whack!

  The plastic sphere flew high and long, the air whistling through its holes, before coming to a rest on the grass far behind Melanie.

  “Not bad, bro,” she said with grudging admiration. “Let’s see what you can do with this one!”

  Liam watched with amusement, and then amazement, as she went into a near-perfect windup. Then she reared back, lunged forward, and threw, snapping her wrist just as she released the ball. Liam was so surprised that he almost didn’t swing.

  Whack!

  The second ball whizzed into the sky and joined the first in the grass.

  “How’d you learn to pitch like that?” he asked, still dumbfounded.

  She looked offended. “I’m an actress, remember? I transform myself into whatever role I’m given. Right now, I’m playing the role of pitcher.” Then she laughed. “Plus, I’ve been watching Carter pitch for years. I’m just imitating what I saw him do in our yard back home. Only right-handed, of course.”

  Liam laughed, too.

  It was only later, after he’d spent a torturous hour helping her with her lines and stepping on her toes while dancing, that he realized what his starstruck sister had said: back home.

  Well, what do you know? he thought. Maybe she misses Pennsylvania, too.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Whoa,” Carter breathed. “Check out all the flags for baseball.”

  He and Rachel stood in the entrance to the high school gymnasium. Dozens of championship banners for various sports teams hung from the walls. The baseball banners outnumbered them all.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” a gruff voice behind them said. “My son pitched for the team that won three in a row.”

  Carter and Rachel turned to find a very tall man with piercing black eyes staring down at them. His sharp features reminded Carter of a hawk.

  “I’m Mark Delaney,” the man said. “And you are…?”

  “Rachel Warburton,” Rachel replied with a grin, “and this is Carter Jones, who I predict will help add even more baseball banners when he’s in high school!”

  “Rachel!” A deep red flush of embarrassment crept up Carter’s neck.

  Mr. Delaney chuckled. “Carter Jones, yes, your coach told me about you. You too, Rachel. Now go warm up. We’re about to start.”

  As he moved to an open spot on the gleaming hardwood floor, Carter counted ten other players. Three of them, including Ash, were in catcher’s gear.

  “Hey, Ash!” he called.

  Ash waved and started toward him.

  “Carter! You ready?” Rachel called.

  At the sound of her voice, Ash frowned. Then his arm dropped and he turned back toward the other catchers.

  Come on, man, Carter wanted to say, at least give her a chance.

  The clinic moved briskly from light warm-ups to harder throws to basic pitches. Mr. Delaney and his two assistants, clipboards in hand, assessed the players’ mechanics.

  Rachel was in line ahead of Carter. He could tell she was nervous by the way she shifted back and forth. “Hey, don’t sweat it,” he whispered. “Just do what you can.”

  She shot him a grateful look and then stepped to the practice rubber for her turn. She cupped the ball in her right hand, eyed Ash behind the plate, reared back, and threw.

  “Look out!”

  The ball flew wild and hit the bleachers with a deafening bang. “Sorry! Sorry!” she cried. Ash shook his head. Even though Carter couldn’t see his face, he was sure the catcher was grimacing with disgust.

  Now he stepped up for his turn. His mouth was suddenly dry. He swallowed hard.

  “Two-seam fastball, when you’re ready,” Mr. Delaney called.

  Carter rotated the baseball to the two-seam grip. Ash held up his glove and gave a slight nod. Eyes focused on his target, Carter went into his windup. Left foot against the rubber, right shoulder aimed at the plate, he raised his right knee and with a great lunging step hurled the ball with all his might.

  Thud!

  The ball smacked into the mitt. Ash smiled at Carter from behind his mask.

  Carter grinned back and then looked at Mr. Delaney. The coach beckoned him over.

  “You’re hooking your wrist,” he informed Carter. He demonstrated the problem. Ball in hand, he held his arm outstretched behind his back and flexed his wrist so his palm faced down. “See that bend? Straighten it out. You’ll have more control because you’ll have less movement through your wrist when you throw. Got it?”

  Carter nodded. The next time he threw, Mr. Delaney said, “Better. But keep working on it.”

  The clinic ended after an hour. One by one, people gathered their belongings and left. Rachel waved to Carter before heading out the door. Now only Carter, Ash, and the coaches remained.

  Carter’s stomach sank. Mr. Delaney had said nothing to him about the knuckleball. Trying to hide his disappointment, he slung his bag over his shoulder.

  “Better put that down, Carter,” Mr. Delaney said. “It’ll just get in your way when you throw.”

  “Throw?”

  The coach smiled. “You do want to work on the knuckleball, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir!” Carter dropped his bag and picked up a ball. “I think I already know the grip.” He imagined the photos he’d seen online and showed Mr. Delaney how he was holding the ball.

  The coach made a slight adjustment to his thumb position. “You throw it
just like a regular fastball but without as much force. If thrown correctly, it will bobble the whole way down.”

  “And confuse the batter!”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Delaney said. “Now, without letting go of the ball, show me how you’d throw it.”

  Carter pantomimed the pitch in slow motion. “Like that?”

  “Good.”

  Mr. Delaney asked Ash to get back behind the plate. Then he spread his hands wide. “Well? What are you waiting for? Let’s see your knuckleball, Carter!”

  Carter didn’t need a second invitation. Eyeballing the pocket of Ash’s glove, he double-checked his grip, using his sense of touch rather than sight to make minor tweaks. Then he took a deep breath, wound up, and threw.

  Thud! The ball socked into Ash’s glove. Carter thought it had jumped just a little, but he wasn’t sure. When he looked at Mr. Delaney, though, he knew he’d done it right. The tall man was smiling broadly.

  “Carter,” he said, “you are what we call a natural.” His dark eyes drifted to the banners. “You remind me of my son, actually.”

  For a moment, Carter thought he saw a shadow of sadness pass over the coach’s face. But if so, it was gone the next moment.

  “Of course,” the coach said, eyes back on Carter, “that first pitch may have been beginner’s luck! Ready to throw a few more before we call it a night?”

  Carter grinned. “Absolutely!”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  I’m starving,” Sean said. “Rodney, are there any cookies left?”

  It was Tuesday afternoon. Liam and the Driscolls had just arrived at the ball field for their game against the Vipers.

  “Let me see.” Rodney opened a snack bag and pulled out a big chocolate-chip cookie. “Last one, but it’s mine because—hey!”

  With lightning speed, Sean had swiped the cookie out of his brother’s hand. Now, slowly and deliberately, he licked the bottom. “Oh, sorry, did you want this?” He held the cookie out to Rodney.

  “Gross!”

  “Boys,” Dr. Driscoll said. “Please save your energy for the game. And your disgusting jokes for when we’re not in public.”

  Laughing, the boys hustled onto the grassy field to warm up. Liam was slated to start in center field, but he didn’t mind. Today, he planned to focus on what he did at the plate rather than behind it.

  The Pythons were the visiting team and so had first raps. As usual, Reggie led off. Liam, batting sixth this game instead of seventh, leaned forward, eyes on the boy on the mound.

  “Enrique Herrera. Age twelve. Throws righty, bats righty,” he murmured.

  “Liam McGrath. Age twelve. Talks to himself,” Sean murmured in exact imitation of Liam.

  “Quiet,” Liam growled good-naturedly. “I’m trying to remember what I know about this pitcher.” In preparation for the day’s game, he had studied the Vipers pitcher’s stats and pored over past Vipers games.

  “Oh. So what else do you know about him?”

  “He’s struck out ten batters in fifteen innings played so far this season. Also given up two home runs.”

  He almost added, Soon to be three, if I get a pitch I like.

  But he kept quiet. He hadn’t told anyone except Melanie and Carter about his quest for the home run title. He wanted to have some big hits under his belt first. Otherwise, it would look like empty bragging.

  And, a little voice inside his head whispered, you won’t look foolish if you fail.

  He pushed the voice aside and watched the Viper throw.

  Fastball low and outside. Reggie let it go by. He knocked the second down for a grounder. It was an easy pickup and an even easier out.

  “Nice try, man,” Liam said when Reggie returned to the bench.

  Alex popped out, bringing up Robert. Robert took a vicious cut at the first pitch. The ball might have sailed far if he’d hit it cleanly. But he fouled for strike one. Three swings later, he struck out.

  Luckily, Scott did just as good a job on the mound for the Pythons. The teams switched sides with goose eggs on both sides of the board.

  “Things keep going like this, and we’ll have a really quick game,” Sean commented.

  “Guess I better do something to slow things down then,” Rodney said. He selected his bat, put on his helmet—and then hit six fouls in a row.

  He’s throwing fastballs low and outside, Liam wanted to scream. Rodney must have recognized that, too, for he laced the seventh pitch for a single.

  “All right!” the Pythons cried.

  Devon Shute, up second that inning, muffed a bunt attempt. He got the signal to swing away. Like Rodney, he clipped the ball for several fouls. Unlike Rodney, he struck out.

  Now Liam approached the plate. He glanced at Dr. Driscoll and got the signal to bunt.

  Liam bit his lip in disappointment. But when the pitch came, he squared off and laid down a sacrifice good enough to get Rodney to second. Liam was thrown out at first.

  I hope it was worth it, he thought. But Rodney was left on base when Clint flied out.

  As he jogged to center field, Liam glanced at the scoreboard. Next time, he thought. Next time, I’ll blast it out of the park and get a run up there!

  But when he came to the plate again in the fourth inning, it was the same situation as before: runner on first, one out.

  Great, Liam thought as he got up from the bench. Just great. I’ll be told to do another bunt.

  Then something crossed his mind. He pushed it away and selected a bat. But as he started walking to the plate, the thought came rushing back.

  If I don’t look at the coach…

  Heart pounding, he fiddled with his helmet, adjusted his batting glove, and stepped into the box. He kept his eyes glued to the pitcher. Not once did he glance at Dr. Driscoll.

  The pitch came. He swung. Bat hit ball and—pow!

  “Holy cow!” he heard someone yell.

  Home run! As he rounded the bases, Liam felt like shouting for joy.

  Sean was the first to meet him at the plate. “Mighty impressive, my man!” The other Pythons slapped him on the back and congratulated him, too.

  In the dugout, Dr. Driscoll called him aside. “Not that I’m complaining about a two-run homer,” the coach said, his expression bemused, “but why did you swing away? I was giving you the sign to bunt.”

  Liam’s heart skipped a beat. “You—you were? Oh. I guess I didn’t see it.”

  Technically, it wasn’t a lie—he hadn’t seen the sign. But deep down, he knew he was in the wrong.

  Then he looked at the scoreboard. Two runs thanks to me. Maybe I was in the wrong, but it turned out all right!

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  The Saturday morning after the pitching clinic, the Hawks met in the center of town to march with the other local Little League teams in the Opening Day parade. It was a glorious spring day, bright and clear and warm. Players from all the baseball divisions, from the littlest kids in Tee Ball to the teenagers in the Juniors, Seniors, and Big League, were grouped at the end of the line. The Little League Softball teams crowded together in the middle, their players chatting excitedly.

  At the front of the line was the town’s newest squad representing the Little League Challenger Division. As its name implied, this group was made up of players with physical and mental disabilities. None of those challenges stopped them from playing baseball, however.

  “Is everybody here?” Coach Harrison called. It was hard to hear him over the din of the crowd lining the sidewalks and the sounds of the high school marching band members tuning their instruments.

  “Rachel’s missing,” Carter answered.

  “Guess we’ll have to march without her,” Ash said.

  “Then again, maybe you won’t!” Rachel bounded up, breathless. “Sorry I’m late, Coach. I was talking to Mr. Delaney.”

  Carter looked at her with surprise. “I didn’t know he was going to be here.”

  “Me neither,” she said. “I just ra
n into him up in the front of the line. Did you know his son is—?”

  Whatever she was about to say was cut off by the crash of cymbals followed by the thrum of drumbeats. Applause rose from the spectators. Rachel added to the noise, clapping and chanting at the top of her lungs.

  “Here we go, Haw-awks. Here we go!”

  The rest of the team took up the cheer. Other baseball squads countered with cries of their own.

  “Eagles! One-two-three! Eagles! One-two-three!”

  “Raptors rule! Raptors rule!”

  “Go, Falcons, go! Go, Falcons, go!”

  “Chickadees! Chickadees! Rah, rah, rah!” a choir of tiny voices warbled.

  Ash made a face. “Chickadees?”

  “Tee Ball team,” Carter explained. “The league’s Board of Directors assigned bird names to the different divisions years ago. They thought birds of prey weren’t right for the little kids.”

  “What were you back then?”

  Carter laughed. “Liam and I were Canaries. But it was better than Hummingbirds!”

  After the parade, the Hawks met up at the field to have their team picture taken. Then it was time to prepare for their first game of the season. Many spectators were there already, including Carter’s parents.

  “Smile, Carter!” Mrs. Jones called. Before he could stop her, she took his photo.

  His mother had taken snapshots at every Opening Day. She had framed each one and hung them in order, from Canary to last year’s Hawk, in the front hallway of their house.

  Carter wished she had skipped the picture this year. In all the others, he and Liam stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders, big toothy grins on their faces. In this photo, he was alone.

  “Hey, how about a shot with his favorite teammate?” Rachel appeared out of nowhere. She twisted her baseball cap to one side, jammed her hands under her armpits, and scowled at the camera. “How’s this? Pretty intimidating, huh? Bet those Eagles are going to be shaking in their cleats today when they get a load of me.”

  In the past week, Carter had discovered something about Rachel: She reminded him of Liam. For one thing, she knew as many stupid jokes as his cousin did. For another, she could throw with almost as much power. Her cannon of an arm had earned her the respect of her teammates—or most of them, anyway.