State Showdown

by Matt Christopher

  “What was that all about?” Rodney asked as he spread cream cheese on half a cinnamon-raisin bagel.

  Liam sighed. “I was stupid enough to tell her I might be catching for Phillip.”

  “No might about it,” Sean said absentmindedly. “Dad has you two paired up for the third Sectional game.”

  Rodney whacked his brother in the back of the head. “Dude, you weren’t supposed to say anything!”

  Sean looked guilty. “Whoops.” Then he cheered up. “Well, he was going to find out this morning anyway. So, got any peanut butter?”

  Liam fetched the jar from the pantry, too distracted by the news to consider how disgusting it was that Sean put peanut butter on a garlic bagel. “You’re sure it’s me, and not Cole?”

  Rodney nodded. “Dad told us this morning. We swore we wouldn’t tell.” He whacked Sean again. “Promise breaker.”

  “Ow!” Sean rubbed his head and scowled. “Brother hitter.”

  “Guys,” Liam interjected, glancing at the clock, “we’re due at the field in twenty minutes.”

  With the first game of Sectionals approaching, Coach Driscoll had called for a light practice that morning. Rodney and Sean had biked to Liam’s house. Now all three rode to the field. Liam and Rodney had backpacks with gloves, water, and cleats. Sean wasn’t playing, but, as he said, “there are worse places to spend a morning than at the ball field.”

  Dr. Driscoll was already there. He took one look at Sean’s shifty expression and sighed. “You told him, didn’t you?”

  Sean hung his head. “Sorry, it just sort of slipped out.”

  His father drew a circle in the air with his finger. “Three laps around the outfield for breaking your promise.”

  Liam grinned as father and son took off. When he’d first met the coach, he hadn’t been very impressed. With thinning hair, Harry Potter–style glasses, and a doughy physique, Dr. Driscoll had fumbled his way through the Little League tryouts in January. Sean and Rodney insisted that their father knew the game of baseball inside and out and that even if he couldn’t play well, he would make a great team manager. Still, Liam had had his doubts.

  It turned out Rodney and Sean were right. Dr. Driscoll had a knack for getting the most out of his players. Their team, the Pythons, had roared through the regular season with just two losses. They’d finished the District tournament undefeated.

  Meanwhile, Coach Driscoll had undergone a transformation. He’d started working out, so now his T-shirts no longer strained against his stomach. He’d upgraded his glasses to more fashionable frames. His hair would always be thin, but who could tell under his baseball cap?

  After the three laps, Coach Driscoll summoned Liam to his side. “So, as Sean said, you’ll be stepping in for Owen.” He cocked his head to the side. “You got the position because things looked pretty solid between you and Phillip yesterday. Did I read that right?”

  The question was asking about more than the previous day’s game. Dr. Driscoll knew all about Liam’s past problem with Phillip. He knew, too, that that problem had caused Liam to make some poor decisions during the regular season.

  Liam had been convinced that players in his new Little League recognized him as the boy Phillip struck out during the World Series. Determined to erase the memory of that strikeout from their minds, he’d set his sights on becoming the top home run hitter in the league. He had success at the plate, but it came with a hefty price. His selfish goal turned him into a selfish player—and had cost him an All-Star spot. He was on the Ravenna roster now only because another boy withdrew before the season started.

  Now, with Owen sidelined, he’d been given another unexpected chance, this time to play his favorite position. How would it sound if he turned around and complained about Phillip’s corrections?

  It’d sound as if I think my needs are more important than his, he thought. In other words: selfish.

  “You read it right, sir,” he finally said. “Phillip and I have buried the hatchet. You don’t need to worry about us anymore.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Arriving at destination,” the computerized female voice of the Joneses’ GPS announced.

  “Thanks for stating the obvious,” Mr. Jones said as he pulled into the hotel parking lot.

  It was midmorning on Saturday, the first day of the Sectional tournament. Carter’s team, Forest Park, was scheduled to play in the late afternoon. First, though, there was a welcome luncheon at the hotel for all the players, coaches, and family members. The Joneses had picked up Ash bright and early and arrived with time to spare.

  Mr. Jones went inside to see if their rooms were ready. Carter got out and stretched. The acrid smell of hot blacktop practically curled his nostril hairs, but he didn’t care. For the past three hours, Ash had been sharing details about Calder, the team they were facing later that day. That information was kept in a special binder along with notes about other teams in the Sectional tourney. Carter appreciated the lowdown, but now he needed a break.

  Ash and Mrs. Jones got out, too. “Phew! The weather folks were right,” Carter’s mother said, fanning herself with a magazine. “The air is so thick with humidity you can practically cut it with a knife. So, you boys excited?”

  “Excited, and a little nervous,” Carter admitted.

  “I just want to get started,” Ash said.

  The hotel’s revolving glass doors deposited Mr. Jones back outside. “We’re all set,” he called.

  The cool air enveloped them as they walked through the hotel lobby. They were by the elevator when Forest Park’s manager, Mr. Harrison, happened by. An energetic man with thick black hair, beefy arms, and a snub nose, he had been Carter’s Little League coach for the past two seasons and for last year’s postseason. He shook hands with Mr. Jones and offered to take Mrs. Jones’s bag. She waved him off with a smile of thanks.

  “I’ll see you all at the luncheon, then,” the coach said, nodding as the foursome stepped into the elevator.

  Their rooms were on the top floor, which was perfect, Mrs. Jones told them, because it meant there wouldn’t be the sounds of people walking around above to bother them.

  “I brought earplugs for everyone,” she added, “in case there are any loud parties going on.”

  “And your white-noise machine to cancel out other annoying sounds?” Mr. Jones said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Carter’s mother colored. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “My mom gets a little crazy if she’s woken up in the middle of the night,” Carter stage-whispered to Ash.

  Mrs. Jones laughed. “I like my beauty sleep!”

  Her husband put his arm around her and gave her a kiss. “You’re beautiful enough without it.”

  Carter pretended to gag. But Ash didn’t see. He was looking at Carter’s parents with a wistful expression.

  Carter didn’t have any brothers or sisters, but he did have both his parents; Ash had only his mother. Carter didn’t know anything about Ash’s father because he’d never asked. He didn’t want Ash to think he was prying. But he sometimes wondered about him.

  The elevator doors opened on their floor. Their footsteps were hushed as they made their way down the long carpeted hallway to their adjoining rooms.

  “Sweet,” Carter said, taking in the two double beds and flat-screen television. He opened the drapes. Sliding glass doors led to a tiny balcony that overlooked a huge outdoor pool. “Check it out! That’s Craig and Allen swimming down there.”

  Craig Ruckel played right field for Forest Park. Allen Avery was one of the team’s shortstops.

  Carter cupped his hands around his mouth and called down to them. They didn’t look up.

  “They must have some of Mom’s earplugs in,” Carter joked when Ash came out onto the balcony. “Hey, you want to go join them?”

  Ash looked over his shoulder at the digital clock between their beds. “The lunch starts in fifteen minutes.”

  Carter was disappointed b
ut saw that Craig and Allen were out of the pool and drying off anyway. “Oh well,” he said. “We can go afterward, right?”

  Ash frowned. “We could, but we shouldn’t. You’re pitching today, remember? You don’t want to tire out your arm swimming. Save the pool for after we win.”

  Carter suppressed a sigh. Ash was probably right, but it was so hot out and the pool looked so inviting.

  Liam would go in, he thought with just a tiny bit of bitterness.

  Carter’s mother poked her head through the adjoining door then and told them it was time to head downstairs.

  The luncheon took place in the hotel’s dining room. Breakfast had been hours earlier and Carter’s stomach growled when he saw the food. He filled his plate and then looked around for the other Forest Park players.

  “Carter, Ash, over here!” Charlie called from a corner table. The rest of the team was there, too. Carter’s parents sat with the other adults, leaving the boys to themselves.

  Carter took a seat and examined his roast beef sandwich. Meat, American cheese, mayo, and lettuce on a bulky roll, no weird stuff like sun-dried tomato spread or horseradish sauce—just the way he liked it. He had just taken a big bite when Craig nudged him and pointed to a girl with long hair tied back into a ponytail.

  “Look, Jones, it’s your girlfriend.”

  Carter nearly choked on his sandwich.

  Rachel Warburton had played on the Hawks, his regular-season Little League team. Funny, smart, confident, and with a powerful throwing arm, she reminded Carter of Liam. He liked her a lot, but just as a friend, not as a girlfriend. He was sure she felt the same way.

  Rachel wove her way through the dining room. “Surprised to see me?” she said with a grin when she reached Carter’s table. “My mom and I just got here. So did the Delaneys.” She nodded toward the door where a tall man with piercing black eyes and black hair flecked with white stood next to a younger man in a wheelchair.

  The tall man was Mr. Delaney. A volunteer Little League pitching coach, he’d taught Carter to throw the knuckleball. His son, Matt, was a former high school pitching star who now worked with the local Little League Challenger team. Carter had often wondered what had happened to put him in a wheelchair. He didn’t ask, though. He thought it might be too painful for Matt to talk about.

  Carter waved to the Delaneys and then asked Rachel if she wanted to sit down.

  “Can’t,” Rachel replied. “No outsiders allowed. I just sneaked in to say hi and to give you this.” She passed him a handmade book.

  “What is it?” He started to leaf through it, but she stopped him.

  “Don’t look at it now. Just keep it with your stuff in the dugout. If you start getting all squirrelly inside, look at it then. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Carter tucked the book into a pocket of his gear bag.

  Rachel nodded with satisfaction, then wished him and the other players good luck and headed back to the Delaneys.

  “I still say she’s your girlfriend,” Craig said mischievously.

  Carter rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest, will you?”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Liam pounded on Melanie’s bedroom door. “Game day! Rise and shine!” he yelled.

  He heard a muffled groan and the sound of shuffling footsteps. Then the door opened.

  “Aaah!” Liam flung up his hands in mock horror. “The zombie girl awakes!”

  Melanie’s appearance was usually picture-perfect. But this Saturday morning, she looked like something the cat dragged in. Her hair was a tangled mess, her grungy, oversize T-shirt was half-tucked into her sleep shorts, and she was missing a slipper.

  “Li-am,” she complained. “Why’d you wake me up so early?”

  “It’s almost eleven o’clock,” Liam informed her. “We’re leaving for the tournament in half an hour.”

  She glowered at him. “Why’d you wake me up so late?” She pushed past him and dashed into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower kicked on.

  Liam went downstairs to check his gear bag for the tenth time. The Sectional tournament site was only forty-five minutes away, close enough that they didn’t have to stay in a hotel, but too far to return home if he forgot anything important. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he prowled around the living room and then wandered into his parents’ office.

  His father was there, working on the laptop. “Hey, kiddo. You ready?”

  “Yep.”

  Mr. McGrath swiveled around in his chair and regarded Liam closely. “And how did things go with you and Phillip these last few days?”

  Liam shrugged. “Mr. Madding says we’re getting there.”

  Mr. Madding was Ravenna’s assistant coach. He’d worked with Liam and Phillip at practice Thursday and Friday. In addition to offering a few pointers, he made sure Phillip kept his pitch count low.

  Liam knew that the pitch-count rules were important because they protected young pitchers’ arms from common overuse injuries. Still, he wished he and Phillip had had more time to work out the kinks.

  “You’re not a well-oiled machine yet,” the coach told them the day before, “but all the parts are in place and working. You’ll be fine.”

  Fine. In Liam’s opinion, that word meant the same thing as average—and average wouldn’t get them very far on the road to Williamsport.

  He thought about that as he followed his father into the kitchen for a quick snack. In the two days of practice, he’d done everything Phillip had asked of him—and kept his mouth shut throughout.

  And I’ll keep it shut, if that’s what it takes to bump us from fine to great, he thought as he spread mayonnaise on a slice of wheat bread and topped it with a few slices of turkey. Even if it kills me!

  Soon after lunch, the McGraths piled into the car and left for the tournament. Liam’s bag was at his feet; Melanie had put her video equipment in the trunk. Liam was relieved that she didn’t plan to pepper him with questions about Phillip during the drive. He stuck in his earbuds, adjusted the volume on his music player, and tuned out.

  Forty-five minutes later, Mr. McGrath pulled into a huge parking lot. Dozens of kids in colorful Little League uniforms from different teams were milling around, talking and laughing excitedly. In the distance, a bright green riding lawn mower droned around the outfield of one baseball diamond while sprinklers wet the infield of another to keep down the dust.

  “Can you drop me off here, Dad?” Liam asked.

  “Sure thing.”

  Mr. McGrath stopped the car under some trees. Liam grabbed his bag, jumped out, and hurried off to find the other Ravenna players. Shouted greetings pinpointed their location in the sea of people.

  “Over here, McGrath!”

  “Hey, Liam, ’bout time you made it!”

  Liam wove his way through the crowd to his teammates. Dr. Driscoll and Mr. Madding were there, too. They told their players to stay put while they went to check in.

  Dominic Blackburn, starting shortstop for that day’s game, pulled Liam aside. “Don’t freak out,” he murmured, “but those guys from Malden keep looking at you and whispering. Oh, shoot,” he added suddenly. “Here they come.”

  With that, Dom slipped away.

  Three boys in maroon uniforms with the name MALDEN emblazoned in white across their chests approached Liam. “Yo,” the biggest of the trio said, crossing his meaty arms over his chest, “are you Liam McGrath?”

  “Yeah,” Liam replied warily.

  The Malden players exchanged glances. “The same Liam McGrath who face-planted after striking out in the World Series?” the boy asked.

  Liam’s heart sank. Not again, he thought.

  Liam’s strikeout during the U.S. Championship had been devastating for three reasons. One, because it had lost his team the game. Two, because he’d swung so hard he corkscrewed around and fell face-first in the dirt. And three, because someone had captured the whole thing on tape and posted it on the Internet not long afterward.

  W
hile Little League players rarely made fun of one another, every so often, when coaches were out of earshot, one would deliver a snide comment meant to embarrass another.

  There were no coaches in sight just then, so Liam steeled himself for ridicule.

  But to his surprise, the boy stuck out his hand for Liam to shake. “It is you, isn’t it? My name’s Sam Witherspoon. I faced DiMaggio in Sectionals last year.” He nodded toward his friends. “So did Tony and Ed. We’re all great hitters—that’s not bragging. It’s a fact; you can check our stats—but none of us could get a hit off him.”

  Tony leaned in. “Don’t tell anyone I said this,” he muttered with a slight lisp, “but we were rooting for you when you batted against Phillip last August. So when you fanned…” He shook his head regretfully.

  Liam relaxed. These boys weren’t there to mock him; they were there to commiserate. “Not my greatest moment,” he admitted. “But I got my swing back this spring.” He cracked a smile. “I even hit a few off of ol’ DiMaggio.”

  The three Malden players murmured appreciatively. “But now you’re his teammate, right?” Sam looked to where Phillip stood talking with Dom. “Man, how can you stand it? I mean, the guy who—well, you know.”

  Liam took off his cap and ran a hand through his thick brown hair to buy himself time to think how best to answer. Sam and his friends were so sympathetic it was hard not to blurt out his frustrations with Phillip.

  But he kept quiet. For better or worse, he and Phillip were teammates. Loyalty to the team, if nothing else, forbade him from bad-mouthing Phillip.

  “I had a choice,” he finally said. “I could be DiMaggio’s teammate and play ball, or I could quit.” He gave Sam a lopsided grin. “I’m not a quitter and I love playing ball, so pretty easy decision, you know?”

  Sam returned his smile. “You’re all right, McGrath.” His smile broadened. “Too bad you and your teammates are going down today!”

  “You’re all right, too, Witherspoon,” Liam responded. “Too bad you’re going to eat those words after you lose!”

  They all cracked up. Then Sam, Tony, and Ed left to rejoin their teammates.