Another deep breath and I went into my motion. Step back with left foot, hands together, arms up, kick left leg up, squat with right leg, big step forward, aim with glove and throw.
POWER, I thought.
THWACK!
The ball went way high above the strike zone. If it was a pitch in a real game, it would have gone past a catcher’s outstretched glove.
“Alexander.” Kieran came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Something went wrong. What was it?”
“I … I don’t know.” I didn’t want to tell him.
“You weren’t a river,” he said as he began pacing away. “I saw you hold on to your thoughts. You threw with your anger and fear.”
“But you said I needed to channel that into my pitches.”
“There is a difference between what you just did and what you need to do. Let any thoughts run through your mind’s eye, but let them go before you begin your windup. Let the emotion channel through, not the distractions. Always remember: You have power over these thoughts. Try the fastball again.”
I toed the rubber and went back through the motions and the same grip on the ball. I uttered the mantra silently but forcefully in my head as I stepped forward.
POWER.
I didn’t hear the sound of the ball hitting the tarp, as they say, ‘right down Broadway’ and with some serious velocity. Nor did I hear the usual high-pitched sound in my ears that usually accompanied an activation. Instead, I felt a sharp sting at the base of my neck, as if a giant mosquito was having lunch. I instinctively slapped at my neck and looked on my hand. No mosquito, no blood. Nothing.
“Something amiss, Alexander?”
I squinted at him for a second. Was he responsible for what just happened? His blank expression didn’t give anything away. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, not just because something had just pierced me there.
“It felt like a bug bit me.” I looked around for something buzzing near my head. Still, nothing.
“Ah, yes. Green flies. They’re nasty creatures with steel jaws. I’ve seen them flittering around.”
I hadn’t. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
“Let’s take a break. I have news.”
Kieran pointed to two seats and I grabbed one, guzzling a fluorescent green sports drink.
“I believe you are ready for the next step. You must now begin facing live batters.”
Forget about man-eating mosquitoes or green flies with steel jaws. Live hitting! In the dead of winter? It didn’t matter. A real game to pitch in.
“Have you heard of a simulated game?”
I nodded. I’d heard the terminology used to describe what an injured pitcher did while rehabbing, but I didn’t know the specifics.
“We will have you face three hitters while you throw to a catcher and keep track of your pitch count, which we will deliberately keep low as we continue to build your arm strength. The umpire will call balls and strikes, and the hitters will be allowed to swing away. I will even tell them to bunt once or twice so you can try fielding. You’ll also be asked to pitch from the stretch as we’ll simulate baserunners.
“I will not be in attendance, to see how you fare on your own. But I will send Coach Carson with you and he’ll be your umpire for the session.”
“When are we doing it?”
“Saturday.”
“Who are the hitters I’ll face?”
That thin smile appeared again. Creepy.
“I thought you’d ask that. They’re three players from a local travel team who want some extra batting practice. I believe you know one of them: Kenneth Lupino.”
Of course. Because I can’t do anything without him involved. I let out an audible sigh.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Excellent. Further motivation to strike him out.”
An hour later, as Carson began the drive back home, I took out my phone and saw a text message:
Kenny: DUUUUUUUUUUDE!
My blood boiled.
“I promise I won’t go easy on you,” Carson said, though I was only half-listening. “I’ve got an extremely tight strike zone.”
“Sure.”
The car stopped short and my phone went flying. I looked up to see what happened—he’d almost run over a pedestrian crossing the dark street. I strained to see the face in the headlights.
He darted away quickly as Carson honked and motioned for him to get out of the way, but I swore I’d just seen The Man with the White Patch again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After being driven dozens of miles out of town to the only nearby indoor baseball field in the area, I sat in the empty clubhouse trying—and failing—to meditate.
I’d already done some warmups and stretches earlier before I took a few laps around the fake turf and soaked in the atmosphere. Sure, there wasn’t a soul in the stands of the college stadium, but this was basically my debut. As I jogged around the artificial surface, kicking up bits of rubber with my cleats, I remembered that first day of Strange football practice: putting on the uniform, looking at myself in the mirror and not knowing where it would take me.
Minutes later, I began meditating. Concentrate on your breathing. In … and out. What was it that stung me? The thoughts continued to swirl as I tried to get back to my breathing. In … and out. Is Kenny somehow involved with whoever is coming for us? Who spoke to him about me and my friends?
My breathing got faster. I scrunched my eyes closed even more and tried to calm down. In … and out. C’mon, Alex. One thing at a time. You have to pitch today … Shoot, I wasn’t supposed to even think about the task at hand. I tried to focus on inhaling and exhaling, but it was no use. I’d be fine once I was on the mound.
“Alex?”
A boy my age poked his head in. He wore a chest protector, shin guards and carried a plastic helmet under one arm. My catcher had arrived.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Graham. You ready to warm up?”
I nodded and followed him out of the clubhouse, up some steps and on to the field. I squinted for a few seconds to get used to the glare of the lights. I felt my stomach do a few dozen somersaults.
Graham and I began playing catch behind home plate to loosen up my arm.
“What pitches do you throw?” he asked.
“Four-seamer, slider, changeup.”
“Alright, that’s easy. One finger for fastball, two for slider, three for changeup,” he said, moving back to lengthen my throws. “You can shake me off if you’d like, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I know these guys you’re facing after I played with them last spring. Trust me.”
I saw Coach Carson, Kenny and a couple of other guys come up from the opposing dugout. Kenny wore Harmon High uniform complete with pinstripes and a mascot patch of a snarling hog with enormous sharp teeth. He came over and gave me a handshake with a half hug.
“’Sup, bro? I promise I’ll take it easy on you since you’re a noob.”
I knew he was teasing me, but underneath, it sounded like an insult.
“I’m the one who has to take it easy on you.” I could hear the edge in my voice, so I tried cracking a smile. “Remember, you’re one of my first live batters. I could get a little wild.”
“Only thing that’s going wild is my bat, noob! Don’t forget this is batting practice for us too.” Kenny’s teammates cackled as he cracked up. “I like my fastballs middle in.”
The smile must have dropped off my face as Kenny stopped laughing.
“Seriously, good luck out there. I know you’ll be fine.”
He and the two batters walked away as Coach Carson came over. At least I had one ally here.
“Alright, Tooey. We’re limiting you to sixty pitches, that’s it. I’ll call balls and strikes, we might pretend to send a runner on a stolen base and you could see a bunt or two. We’ll take a five-minute break between ‘innings.’ Got it? Take your ten warmups.”
He leaned in and dro
pped the volume on his voice.
“I heard from that college coach again today. He was checking in on you and was pleased to hear you took up baseball. He thinks it’ll help build your arm up and will help increase your confidence. Stay focused today and show everyone what you’re made of. Kieran wanted to pass along one word of advice.”
“Power?”
He nodded, gave me a fist bump and headed toward home plate. I was floored by that new information but a charge ran through my body. I can do this.
I headed to the mound and stepped on the rubber. Graham got in a crouch … and suddenly, he seemed so far away. Even though I’d practiced with the tarp at the same distance, the sight of a catcher squatting in front of me shrank my target. Remember, that’s just an illusion. Throw as if you’re hitting the tape square on the tarp.
I wound up and threw a fastball that skipped in front of Graham. I tried again with the same grip and it flew over his head. I heard Kenny suck in his breath as he watched. Focus. I tried a changeup, which could help with my control.
POP!
Right down the middle. I was in business.
I threw two sliders in a row. Both tailed into what would be a righty. A few more changeups and fastballs and I was set. I didn’t throw my “special” fastball, fearing that my powers would abandon me at the exact moment I needed them.
“Play ball!” yelled Coach Carson, as he threw on an umpire’s mask. Graham squatted down and pounded his mitt twice. “Alright now, Tooey. Pitch it to my glove.”
Up stepped the first hitter I’d face … and he walked into the batter’s box to my left. Great. My first-ever live hitter was a lefty, which meant he’d have the advantage. Just pitch like you always do.
Graham put down one finger and didn’t move. Fastball down the middle. I rolled the ball around to get my grip, wound up and threw.
POP!
“Steeerrrrike!” Thanks, coach. I could tell the hitter wasn’t taking the bat off his shoulders. He was waiting for one pitch to gauge what I could do. He stepped out for a second and took two practice swings. When he came back, I saw Graham throw down two fingers and move his glove to give me a target outside. No problem.
Windup, pitch … and I watched as it didn’t “slide” like it was supposed to or move toward Graham’s target. The perfect hanging slider right down the middle.
CRACK!
My head spun around to see the ball bounce into right field. It probably would have been an easy single. One batter in and I already had to pitch from the stretch. The next hitter—a righty!—stepped in as Kenny got ready in the on-deck circle. I bent down and put the ball behind my back as Graham flashed three fingers and put out his glove inside, just under the batter’s hands.
I stood upright with the ball in my glove, getting all my fingers around the ball, immediately went to my leg kick and threw. He swung, expecting fastball.
“Strike, but runner steals second,” Carson said. “Get into the habit of checking the runner first. Don’t let him take a big lead.”
So much to remember! Fastball again, low target. I peeked over my right shoulder before the pitch. Way high for a ball.
Slider again. This time it was perfect, looking as if it was heading down the middle and broke toward the batter enough that he took a wild check-swing that Coach Carson deemed a full cut. I had a 1-2 pitch coming. Time to break out the big gun.
Graham flashed two fingers. I shook my head. He threw down three. No way. He popped one finger down forcefully to indicate he was annoyed. He moved to his right, giving me a solid target on the outside corner.
I stepped off the rubber for a second, took a deep breath and reset. Into my motion with the word POWER flashing through my brain. The feeling of water rushed through my veins as I felt my muscles pulse as I threw.
POW!
A perfect strike on the outside. No ringing in my ears or the smell of marshmallows. That’s bizarre.
“HERRRRRRRRRRRRAHHHHHHHHHHH!” Coach Carson yelped, throwing in a punch-out motion for strike three.
Graham looked at his glove and back at me. “Atta boy, Tooey!” He threw the ball back and I thought I saw him wave his glove a little as if his hand stung.
Kenny strode to the plate and my heart continued to pound, but something else was happening to me: the feeling of water running through my body didn’t subside as it usually did. My focus was laser-like, as if I had blinders on. My muscles were taut and quivering, my jaw clenched. It was both scary and thrilling at the same time … but I had no control over it.
Kenny stepped into the batter’s box, a hulking mass leaning over the plate who was daring me to throw anywhere close to the strike zone. The message in my brain: blow it by him.
Two fingers. Slider. I went from the stretch and whap! My wrist snapped as the pitch came in straight and dove down at the last second, sharper than I’d ever seen it before. Kenny swung wildly and missed. I’ve got you now.
Three fingers. Nope. I shook him off. Three fingers again. Another head shake. He tapped his mask with his finger as if to say, use your head. Fine. He threw down three again and I obliged. Graham popped up a bit from his squat, meaning he wanted it high. I fired … and even though it was a change-up grip, it was faster than any fastball I’d ever thrown.
POW!
Kenny looked at me and must have realized my powers had kicked in. He nodded and said, “Okay.” I could see him dig in even deeper, furrowing his brow as he awaited my next pitch.
One finger. Fastball. Graham wanted it low and outside. Here comes the heat.
Whatever was happening to me hadn’t given me perfect pinpoint control. I missed by about an inch but it was by far the fastest pitch I’d ever thrown. Still, Mr. All-American Lupino was ready.
PING!
He got every bit of the barrel of the bat on the ball and somehow pulled it down the third baseline. The missile headed toward the foul pole before it curved just out of play.
The battle had begun. Coach Carson called my next changeup inside. Kenny fouled off a slider, then another fastball and a slider. Graham wanted a fastball high that Kenny somehow laid off. Each time I pitched, my heart beat just a little faster as time seemed to speed up.
Fastball, fouled off. Slider, fouled off. The next two pitches, fouled off. Give in, Kenny.
I stepped off the mound, trying to gather everything I had for one more pitch. My heartbeat was off the charts, my breathing heavy and sweat pouring out of me. I wiped my face with my sleeve and stepped back on.
I shook off Graham’s calls for slider and changeup before he threw down a one. I stared down Kenny, the anger building inside of me.
Into the stretch, leg kick and big step. I grunted as I threw.
SLAP!
WHAP!
The first sound belonged to the baseball. It didn’t hit my intended target down the middle or the bat. Instead, it went right at Kenny’s backside and hit him squarely on one butt cheek. He howled in agony.
But he wasn’t my concern. The second slapping sound belonged to my hand. As soon as I’d released the ball, I felt that same sting at the back of my neck I’d felt while working with Kieran. But in my heightened state, I was quick enough to nail whatever was stinging me.
I pulled back my hand and looked down. It was insect-sized and initially looked a bumble bee with black and yellow stripes. But I inspected closer and saw broken glass and tiny wires sticking out. There was blood, too, either from the “bee” or from my slap. Everything slowed down as the activation finally ended.
I didn’t hear Kenny screaming at me or see Coach Carson holding him back from charging the mound. I looked up at the empty seats around me and up at the skyboxes. Some movement caught my eye up there.
I quickly pocketed the device and turned my attention to Kenny.
“I’m so sorry, it got away from me, I swear.”
“Sure it did.” He bared his teeth at me before whirling around and limped toward h
is dugout.
Carson jogged up.
“What the hell was that, Alex?”
I held up my bloody hand.
“I have no idea.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I cleaned off my hand in the clubhouse, expecting to see a humongous cut that went along with my blood. Yet there was only a tiny shard of glass I pulled out that left a tiny cut. Bizarre. But I had something else I needed to deal with first. I sprinted down the hall to the visitor’s lockers despite Carson warning me not to as we ended my simulated game early.
I found Kenny with his baseball pants down on his left leg, holding a bag of ice over the cheek of his backside.
“You gonna hit the other one?” he snarled.
“I swear, I didn’t—”
“C’mon, man. Let’s be honest with each other. You’ve never liked me from the moment I came to the woods looking for you guys. I don’t know how much more I can convince you that I’m trustworthy or that I’m not trying to take Sophi away from you. What’s done is done, we’re never going to be friends. You should go.”
It was my turn to try to convince him of something: The plunking was an accident. Between my powers going haywire and the stinging, I’d lost control of everything.
The bug! Or should I say, the “bug!” I reached into my pocket, pulled out the device and held it up.
“This is what stung me right as I threw the pitch. By that point, my powers were …”
I couldn’t finish. Kenny’s eyes were wide as he stared at the device.
“You got stung?”
“Yeah, twice. Once last week and once—”
“It happened to me, months ago. I was working out at my school’s gym and I felt a sting right at the back of my neck. I thought it was a spider.”
I could feel my eyes get bigger this time.
“Did it do anything to your powers?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. What happened to yours?”
I recounted what had just happened on the mound, as if my body went into overdrive in one long activation.
“The first time I was stung, I’d been practicing pitching. Right at the moment I activated, something nailed me. I guess it was this thing.”
The Impossible Pitcher Page 7
