District Doubleheader

by Matt Christopher

  It was too late to warn Robert because Spencer was going into his windup. He threw and—boom! Phillip hit the ball with the sweet spot of the bat. And just as Liam had feared, the ball rocketed toward the gap.

  “No, no, no!” he cried. Then he gasped. Rodney was sprinting across the grass. No, not sprinting—flying! He covered the distance faster than Liam would have thought possible and then laid his body out, glove reaching, reaching… and capturing the ball at the tip of the leather!

  The fans went wild. Every Python was cheering and applauding—except Rodney. He simply stood up, threw the ball back to Spencer, and returned to his position as if making such circus catches were routine.

  But Liam knew it was much more than that. That kind of effort and heads-up play was what All-Stars did. With that catch plus his strong performance at the plate, he was sure that come June 15 Rodney would find his name on that roster. He was glad. If anyone on the Pythons deserved to be chosen, it was Rodney.

  And yet paired with happiness for his friend was anxiety for himself. The All-Star team fielded fourteen players. Phillip DiMaggio would no doubt get one of the positions. If Rodney claimed one of those slots, that left just twelve. Who would get those?

  I will, Liam thought with determination. After I homer today, one of them will go to me.

  Phillip’s out was quickly followed by two more, and the teams switched sides. In the dugout, everyone crowded around Rodney, congratulating him on his catch.

  Rodney’s father beamed at him and then pushed a batting helmet onto his head. “Go get ’em,” he said, the pride in his voice obvious.

  “Rod-ney! Rod-ney! Rod-ney!” Sean started chanting. The other Pythons picked up the rhythm, clapping and stomping their feet. Liam cheered along, too. Their encouragement must have helped, because Rodney doubled for the team’s first hit.

  Not our last, though, Liam thought as he selected a bat. Look out, DiMaggio, ’cause here I come.

  He stepped into the box and stared at Phillip. Phillip narrowed his eyes. Then he did just what Liam knew he’d do: He touched his chest and then his nose, and then he pointed at Liam.

  Liam almost laughed out loud. Nice try, DiMaggio. But I’m through letting you intimidate me. Now throw me that ball—and get ready to watch it disappear!

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  By the fourth inning of the Hawks-Falcons game, the cool breeze of the morning had died and the temperature had risen fifteen degrees. Carter stood on the mound, looking to put an end to the Falcons’ scoring threat.

  Suddenly, a rivulet of sweat edged down his brow and into his eye. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Moments later, his eye began to sting. He rubbed it, but that just made it worse. And when his other eye also began to sting—

  “Time!”

  Coach Harrison hurried onto the mound. “What’s wrong, Carter?”

  Carter dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Oh, man, they’re burning so bad I can’t see!” His eyes were streaming tears now, trying to rid themselves of the irritant.

  “You got sunscreen in them,” the coach guessed. He waved to Seth. “Help him to the restroom. Carter, rinse your eyes until they feel better.”

  In the men’s room, Carter splashed handful after handful of cool water onto his face. Finally, the stinging subsided. He looked up in the mirror and grimaced. The mixture of lotion, sweat, and rubbing had left his eyes flaming red.

  “Yikes!” Seth said. “You look like something out of a horror movie.”

  Carter blinked a few times, hoping it would help. The stinging was gone completely, but the redness remained. When he stepped outside, the bright sunlight made him close his eyes to slits.

  He knew before the coach told him that he was done on the mound for the day. He wasn’t surprised to hear Rachel warming up. Drew had thrown two days before. Per Little League’s pitch-count rules, he was required to rest his arm one more day before taking the mound again. Any number of Hawks could have taken Carter’s place, but Rachel was the best candidate because she’d had more practice.

  She had more power than some of them, too. And she was using it now. Whap! Carter winced as the ball socked into Ash’s mitt.

  “Yeow, bet that left a mark on his palm,” Arthur muttered. “Is it just me, or is she throwing even harder than usual?”

  Carter thought Arthur was right. “If she can keep throwing like that and find the target, she’ll clean up these last innings and hand us the win on a silver platter,” he predicted.

  Something of a goofball when not playing, Rachel was no-nonsense when she was on the mound. That was bad news—for the Falcons. She struck out the first batter in six pitches. The second batter connected but knocked the ball straight down in front of home plate. It was a classic Baltimore chop, which Ash picked off on the bounce. One pinpoint throw to first later, the Falcon was sent back to his bench.

  “One more, Rachel, one more!” Carter cried.

  She didn’t get the next Falcon out, or the next. Carter tensed, wondering if Ash would go out to the mound. But the catcher didn’t need to, for Rachel retired the side on the next batter.

  “Great job, Rach!” Carter praised when she jogged into the dugout. He held up his hand for a high five. But she just nodded and moved past him to get a drink.

  Got her game face on, he thought. Still, he was a little surprised when she didn’t sit next to him as she usually did. The Hawks failed to earn a run that inning, their last turn at bat.

  “Here you go, Hawks!” Coach Harrison cried as the team moved back onto the field. “Play smart, get the outs, and we’ll have a third win in our pockets!”

  That win looked a little less certain, though, when Rachel threw the first pitch.

  Crack! The Falcon crushed the ball, sending it rocketing just beyond outfielder Remy Werner’s reach. Remy scrambled, got his hand on the ball, and heaved it to the cutoff man as quickly as he could. His heads-up play held the runner at third, but with no outs there was a very real possibility that that runner would reach home.

  “Come on, Hawks,” Carter yelled. “Hold ’em!” The rest of the Hawks picked up the cry.

  The second batter singled. Runners on first and third, no outs. The next Falcon laid down a bunt. But Ash and the infielders were anticipating the play. Ash pounced on the ball and hurled it to first for the out. The Falcon at third hadn’t budged, so Jerry Tuckerman tried to get the runner out at second. But his throw was too late.

  Runners on second and third, one out. One out turned into two with a caught fly ball. Both benches were going wild, chanting for their teams. When Carter saw who the next batter was, however, his cheer stuck in his throat.

  A tall boy with an athletic build, Charlie Murray had been an All-Star last year. He had a good swing, but it was his fast feet that earned him the respect of his teammates. More than once in the postseason, he had outrun throws to first. Even if his hit was weak, he could be a threat.

  Of course, Coach Harrison knew Charlie, too. Rather than risk Charlie’s outrunning a throw, he opted to have Rachel walk him.

  Bases loaded, two outs, play to any base.

  Now a slim boy with wraparound glasses came to the plate. He missed the first pitch and nicked the second for strike two.

  “Come on, Rachel! Sneak one more by him!” Carter bellowed.

  She flicked her eyes toward the bench before catching the toss from Ash. Then she stood for what seemed like an eternity. When she finally did throw—

  “What the heck was that pitch?” Drew cried in astonishment.

  “Whatever it was, it worked!” Remy cheered. “Strike three, baby!”

  “Carter, did you see that?” Josh Samuels added, equally amazed.

  But Carter was too dumbfounded to answer.

  Rachel had just thrown a perfect knuckleball.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Liam wanted to smash the ball so far that the outfield didn’t stand a chance of getting a glove
on it. He hit a single instead. There were no outs when Sean came up to bat. Then there were two—Sean hit a grounder that led to a double play from second to first. No doubt the Rattlers would have loved it to be a triple play, but Rodney was far too swift to be thrown out at third.

  “Sorry, guys,” Sean apologized in the dugout.

  “Hey, it happens to all of us,” Spencer said.

  “Some more than others,” Robert muttered from behind Liam.

  Liam nodded his head. He’d been thinking the same thing, but he sure wouldn’t have said it out loud.

  “What was that?”

  Liam looked up, surprised to see Spencer and Sean staring at him.

  “I didn’t say anything,” he replied.

  The two boys exchanged a glance. Sean shrugged. “Oh, I thought—never mind.”

  Clint, up after Sean, laced a line drive that was good enough to land him on first—and get Rodney home for the first run of the game. Unfortunately, Jay popped out to end the inning.

  The score remained Pythons 1, Rattlers 0 through the bottom of the third. In the top of the fourth, however, the Rattlers crossed home plate twice to make it Rattlers 2, Pythons 1. Liam hoped to even it up with a home run, but instead knocked three long fouls in a row just outside the left-field line. He straightened out the fourth, but by then the third baseman was waiting. He stuck out his glove and made the catch easily.

  “Nice try, son,” Dr. Driscoll said.

  Liam gave him a curt nod. Then, frustrated, he stalked back to the dugout and stood, arms crossed tightly over his chest, against the back wall. A few Pythons glanced his way, but no one spoke to him.

  One at bat left, he thought bitterly. Or, if I’m lucky, two. But what are the chances of that? Zero to none, he added, shaking his head when Sean made the last out to end the fourth inning.

  Neither team scored in the fifth. The Rattlers threatened again in the sixth, putting runners on first and second with just one out. But Alex snared a hopping grounder bare-handed right near third base. He stepped on the bag for out number two and then fired the ball to second. That runner was safe, but the next Rattler grounded out to end the danger.

  Rattlers 2, Pythons 1—but now the Pythons were at bat.

  “Robert! Rodney! Liam!” Coach Driscoll called, reminding the team of the batting order for their last raps.

  Okay, Liam thought, it’s now or never. He played the scene in his mind over and over. Each time, it ended the same way: a home run that had everyone stamping and cheering his name—and DiMaggio walking off the mound in defeat.

  Robert got on base on a fielder’s error. Rodney tried to bunt him to second but hit the ball wrong. Instead of dribbling down the baseline, it popped up—and landed smack in Phillip’s glove. Phillip whirled around and threw to first in time to get Robert out, too.

  Then it was Liam’s turn. His heart pounded as he fitted the helmet onto his head and chose his bat. He dried his sweaty palms on his pants, rolled his shoulders to loosen them up, and then stepped into the box.

  He and Phillip locked eyes for a split second before the pitcher began his windup.

  Bring it, Liam thought.

  The pitch came. He started for it but at the last moment checked his swing. Thud!

  Had he stopped in time or broken the plane?

  “Ball!”

  “Good eye, Liam! Good eye!” Coach Driscoll called.

  The next pitch fooled him. He swung and missed for a count of one and one. He reached for the next pitch and missed that, too. But the fourth—

  Pow!

  It was a home run. Liam was sure of it. He took off down the base path at an easy trot, grinning widely. Then he heard the first-base coach.

  “Are you crazy? Move!” Devon screamed.

  Liam whipped his head around. His jaw dropped. The ball had hit the ground—inside the fence!

  “Go! Go! Go!” Devon hollered. “Before they pick it up!”

  Liam was already sprinting. He rounded first. Reached second. Saw Brian Benson, the third-base coach, frantically wheeling his arm. He put the pedal to the metal and hit third.

  “They missed the cutoff man! Run!” Brian bellowed.

  Liam ran, faster and harder than he ever had in his life. The Rattlers catcher was waiting at the plate, mitt up. Then suddenly, the catcher jumped. The throw to home was wild!

  Liam tore up the last few yards of dirt. Phillip, backing up the catcher, scrambled to find the ball in the dust. Five feet before the plate, Liam dropped into a slide. Phillip tossed the ball to the catcher. The catcher nabbed it, swung his glove around and down—and missed!

  “Safe!” the umpire yelled, fanning his arms out to either side.

  “Yes!” Liam leaped to his feet and pumped the air with his fist.

  “Hold it!” someone cried. The field umpire was racing in, waving his arms through the air.

  Liam froze, arm still in midair.

  “I’m sorry, son,” the umpire said, his voice full of sympathy.

  Coach Driscoll hurried onto the field to see what was happening. The field umpire explained, saying that the Cobras’ coach had appealed the missed base, insisting that Liam’s foot had landed near the bag, but not on it at any time. Liam’s stomach dropped. He felt helpless as he watched what happened next—the ball went back to the mound, where it was called back into play and then thrown to the second baseman. He stepped on the base, and the umpire made the ruling. Instead of making a run, Liam had made the final out.

  He stood rooted to the spot. Then the storm brewing inside him all game long finally erupted. He spun on his heel, walked stiff-legged with humiliation to the dugout, and yanked off his helmet.

  The moment it happened, he wished it back. Even before he saw the look on Coach Driscoll’s face, he knew he’d crossed a line. The question was, would he be able to cross back? Was his unacceptable behavior the end of his time as a Python?

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  I knew she was trouble,” Ash said, “but I still can’t believe she stole your pitch.”

  It was the day after the Hawks’ win over the Falcons, and Ash and Carter were having a game of catch in the Joneses’ backyard.

  “Me neither.” Carter took the ball out of his glove and threw it back in. Again and again, harder and harder. Finally, he hurled the ball to Ash.

  “What makes it even worse,” Ash said, “is that Mr. Delaney taught it to her.”

  Carter was silent. That was the part he didn’t understand. Not once during their sessions had the pitching coach mentioned that he was working with Rachel, too. But he knew it was true because that’s what he’d heard Rachel tell Coach Harrison.

  In the dugout after the win, the coach had taken her aside and asked her about the pitch. Carter was close enough to hear her replies, as was Ash.

  “I heard about the knuckleball from Carter,” she explained. “The next time I saw Matt Delaney, I asked him about it.”

  “I thought Mr. Delaney’s name was Mark,” Ash whispered to Carter.

  Carter shushed him. He wanted to hear what else Rachel had to say.

  “He offered to show me how to throw the knuckleball,” Rachel continued. She shrugged. “I guess I’m a fast learner.”

  “I see,” Mr. Harrison said. “For the record, I would have appreciated a heads-up that you were learning something new. It’s important that you receive the right instruction at this stage.”

  He glanced sideways at Carter and Ash, who pretended to examine something on Ash’s chest protector. “It’s also important that you keep your teammates in the loop. Ash had no way of knowing you were going to throw a knuckleball. Throwing a pitch your catcher isn’t expecting can be dangerous. Not only that, I’m sure the Hawks bull pen would welcome the chance to work on that pitch and others with you—under proper coaching supervision, of course.”

  Now Rachel looked Carter’s way. “Really? I’m not so sure.”

  “Why do you say that?” Mr. Harrison asked sharply. />
  Carter kept his eyes glued to the chest protector, not daring to look at either Rachel or Ash. Would she bring up the snide remarks she’d overheard Ash make about her? What would Ash do if she did? What would the coach do?

  But after a moment, she smiled. “Are you kidding? It’s crowded enough in there already, with Drew and Carter and Ash and Leonard,” she said. Then she shifted her gaze past Mr. Harrison and brightened. “Look! There’s my pitching coach now. I forgot he was going to be here today. I guess if you have any more questions about what he’s been teaching me, you could ask him. Better hurry, though. Looks like he’s about to leave.”

  Carter spotted Mr. Delaney helping someone into his car. He waved. The coach waved back, but to Carter’s disappointment, he didn’t come over. Instead, he got into his car and drove off.

  “Think Rachel will be there when we meet with Mr. Delaney tomorrow?” Ash asked now.

  Carter held up his glove, and Ash threw him the ball. “Guess we’ll find out,” he said.

  But they didn’t, because that night, the coach canceled their session. “I have to take my son to a doctor’s appointment,” he explained to Carter. “I’ll be in touch to reschedule.”

  The coach wasn’t the only cancellation Carter had that night. Liam texted before dinner to say he wouldn’t be able to video-chat. Carter texted back to find out why, but Liam never answered.

  “It was weird,” he said to his father when he came downstairs later. “First he blows me off for the call and then he ignores my text.”

  Mr. Jones was at the computer. “I think I might know what’s going on. Come see.” He tapped a few keys. A video appeared. “Aunt Amanda sent this earlier. It’s footage of Liam’s last game. Melanie took it.” He clicked PLAY.

  The video started with Liam hitting a blazing, high fly ball.

  “He homered—oh, wait, no, he didn’t,” Carter said when Liam suddenly began running instead of trotting.

  Carter saw Liam race to second, third, and then elude the catcher’s tag at home. He saw the field umpire hurry in and heard him report the appeal. And then he saw what had his father so concerned.