Change Up

by Derek Jeter

  Derek shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s just that I haven’t been playing short . . .”

  “I know you want to be a shortstop, Derek, and your dad wants you to be too, of course. But do you want to know what I think? He’s trying to get something across to you. Do you know what it is?”

  “I’m . . . I guess I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out for yourself,” said Chase. “Just focus on how you can get back your love of playing the game. You’ll get there, Derek. I know you will.”

  Derek got up to go. He hoisted the gear bag and started toward the car again. Why did everyone expect him to figure stuff out for himself? Why couldn’t they just tell him what to do?

  “Hang in there, Derek!” Chase called after him. “Just trust. Things will get better soon. Teams go through growing pains, you know—just like people.”

  Derek supposed Chase was right. But he sure hoped things turned around soon, before the season became a total bust.

  Funny. . . . Both his mom and Chase seemed to be saying it was up to him to turn things around. But how could he do that? After all, he was only one player. Besides, he was just a kid! How was he supposed to figure everything out for himself?

  Chapter Eight

  LET’S MAKE A DEAL

  “You know what I hate?”

  Gary’s question was in a whisper, because if Ms. Fein heard him, he’d get called out and given an X on his behavior chart. Gary had never had an X on his behavior chart—not because he didn’t talk in class but because he was smart enough not to get caught at it.

  Derek, however, even though he was smart in general, seemed to have a special hole in his brain when it came to getting caught talking in class. He had several Xs in his chart, and Gary delighted in helping him get more of them, by baiting him into conversations that Derek couldn’t resist.

  Derek waited till Ms. Fein was busy shuffling some papers on her desk, then whispered, “Okay, what do you hate?”

  “I hate how all the guys on the team make fun of me.”

  Ms. Fein looked up from her papers, and Gary’s mouth closed. His eyes had never left his worksheet, which he continued to scribble on even as he talked to Derek.

  “You know,” Derek murmured, watching Ms. Fein to make sure she wasn’t looking, “if you learned to play better—or even acted like you cared—maybe they’d stop. I’ll even talk to them about it, if you agree to come with me and my dad to the batting cages.”

  Gary snorted, which made Ms. Fein look up. “Do you have something to say, Derek?” she asked, a hand on her hip and her chin thrust forward.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then please refrain from disturbing the rest of us.”

  “But—”

  Derek stopped himself. He knew it was no use. Gary somehow had the supernatural ability to throw his voice like a ventriloquist, making it seem as if someone else were guilty, not him.

  At least the teacher didn’t open her chart and give Derek an X, he noted with relief. But was there anyone in the world more annoying than Gary Parnell? Not in Derek’s world, there wasn’t.

  “Class? Attention please,” the teacher said. Everyone put down their pencils and listened. “There’s going to be a science test this coming Friday. It’s going to count for ten percent of your grade this marking period, so I want you to study hard—and don’t wait till the last minute either. You’ve got to go over units five, six, and seven.”

  There were moans and murmurs from some kids in the class. This really was going to be a big test. And that meant only one thing. . . .

  “You know I’m beating you on this one,” Gary told Derek. “As usual.”

  “That’s what you think you know,” Derek corrected him. He couldn’t help getting into it with Gary. One thing they had in common was their sheer competitiveness.

  Wait—that was it!

  Derek remembered what his mom had said, that he and Gary had more in common than he thought. At the time, he couldn’t see what, but now it seemed totally obvious!

  And that gave him a brilliant idea. If Gary could bait Derek into doing things, Derek could do the same to him, by using Gary’s own oversize competitive gene!

  “Tell you what,” he whispered to Gary. “If I beat you on this test, you have to come to the batting cages with me and my dad and learn how to hit.”

  Gary raised one curious eyebrow above the top of his glasses. “And if you lose?” he asked.

  Derek shrugged. “Your call. You name it.”

  A sly grin appeared on Gary’s face. He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “If you lose . . . you have to attend math camp with me the week after school ends!”

  Math camp?

  “All right, all right,” Derek reluctantly agreed. “But tie goes to me.”

  No risk, no reward, he figured. And the potential reward was worth the risk. Not that he was going to let Gary beat him on this test. If he had to, Derek would stay up all night every night studying.

  “It’s a bet,” Gary said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Yesss!”

  “Derek Jeter!” Uh-oh. Ms. Fein had caught him red-handed. “You seem to have motormouth disease today. Maybe since you’re so talkative, you’d like to talk to the principal?”

  “No! I mean, no, Ms. Fein.” The whole class was laughing at him now. Derek felt like melting into his chair.

  “See me after class,” said Ms. Fein. The bell rang. “As in, right now.”

  “Have fun, Jeter,” said Gary, grinning as he gathered up his book. “I mean, motormouth! Ha!”

  Gary’s going to be sorry when I beat him on the test and he has to come to the batting cages, thought Derek.

  “All right, young man. What is going on with you today that you feel it necessary to talk in class?”

  “Ms. Fein, Gary kept talking to me, and I was—”

  “Never mind what others did,” she said, sounding just like Derek’s mom and dad. “Let’s talk about you. You already have five Xs for talking. That’s enough for me to put it on your report card, and that, I think you know, will get your parents involved.”

  “Oh, please don’t do that, Ms. Fein,” Derek begged. “I won’t talk in class anymore, I promise! It’s just that we were making a bet on who would get a better mark on the science test.”

  “Oh. I see,” said Ms. Fein. “Well, then, since you’re so interested in doing well on the test, you can do this extra science worksheet at home tonight. If you bring it in completed, I’ll erase two of your Xs, and you’ll have done some extra studying for the test in the bargain!”

  “Deal!” Derek said, happy and relieved. “You’re the best, Ms. Fein!” He grabbed the worksheet, ran out of the class, and hurried to catch the school bus home.

  • • •

  Derek could feel his eyes crossing. He’d been studying for almost three whole hours, and it was nearly his bedtime. Vijay had called to see if he wanted to come over to the Hill and play ball, but Derek had turned him down, much to his pal’s astonishment. It was the sort of thing that never happened—like lightning on a sunny day, or fish swimming in the toilet.

  “Derek?” It was his dad, popping his head into Derek’s room. “How’s it going?” His dad’s tone was warm and friendly, and he was smiling.

  “Good,” Derek said, stifling a yawn.

  “You’ve been at it all evening, I notice. Big test?”

  “You have no idea how big.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I’m glad to see you working so hard and taking your schoolwork seriously. I want you to know how proud I am of that.”

  “Thanks,” Derek said, yawning for real this time.

  “Sure you don’t want to stop now and get some sleep?”

  Derek shook his head. “I’ve still got this extra worksheet I volunteered to do.”

  “Volunteered? For extra work?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, good for you! That’s great. I’m proud of you,
like I said. And I’m also proud of how hard you’re trying out there on the ball field. You’ve played very well, no matter where I’ve put you. You’ve been steady and consistent at the plate. No errors at all so far. And no complaining anymore about your teammates. I noticed that, too. So . . . good going.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Mr. Jeter said, “I notice you’ve been checking out your contract too.” The contract was sitting right on Derek’s desk. He’d checked it to see what the penalty was for talking too much in class.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “What about Dave? Are you going to let him pitch again next game? I know he wants to.”

  “Derek, I’ve got to give other kids a chance on the mound. And that’s all I’m going to say about it,” he added when Derek looked like he wanted to object. “Let’s stay focused on the positives, okay?”

  “Uh-huh. I’d better get back to work, though,” Derek told his dad. “Got to do that worksheet.”

  “All right. But don’t stay up too late.”

  “I won’t.”

  It took Derek another half hour to do a worksheet that should have taken only ten minutes. But he couldn’t keep his mind from drifting, as tired as he was.

  He ran over the Indians’ last game in his mind—and all the ones before that. All the mistakes, all the “what ifs.” None of it changed a thing. Their record was a disaster so far, and if things didn’t turn around right away, the whole season would become an exercise in frustration.

  Now if only he could beat Gary on this test and get him down to the batting cages, where Derek and his dad could both work on Gary’s game—and his attitude!

  Chapter Nine

  SMELLS LIKE TEAM SPIRIT

  “I know I could do it, if I could only get another shot,” Dave said glumly.

  He, Derek, and Vijay, along with half a dozen other kids from Mount Royal Townhouses, were playing ball on “Derek Jeter’s Hill,” the grassy slope where the kids always gathered after school.

  “I don’t know why you even want to pitch,” Vijay said as he took the ball for his turn on the mound. “I hate pitching. I don’t know why Coach made me do it that time.”

  “You’d like it if you were better at it,” Dave said.

  “What do you mean? I stink at it!”

  “See? That’s what I’m saying!” said Dave. “You’re proving my point.”

  Turning to Derek, who had on the team’s catcher’s gear, Dave said, “I wish your dad would give me another chance. Do you think he ever will?”

  Derek shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Couldn’t you ask him for me? I’ll bet he’d listen to you.”

  “You’d lose that bet. My dad makes up his own mind about things. And he’s been pretty clear about me not interfering with his coaching decisions.”

  Intervening on Dave’s behalf was out of the realm of possibility. He hadn’t told Dave that he’d already asked once, and been shut right down.

  “Hey, you guys!” their friend Josh yelled from the outfield. “How ’bout it? We’re waiting!”

  “Hang on one second!” Derek shouted back. “I’m sure he’ll give you another shot eventually,” he assured Dave, although he was really far from sure.

  Derek could see that what he’d said didn’t make Dave any happier.

  “The thing is, I want to make sure I come through if I do get another chance,” Dave said. “Do you think you could help me figure out what I’m doing wrong?”

  Derek thought of his mom’s words: “How can you yourself make sure your team plays up to its potential?”

  “Sure,” he said. “How about if we stay around for half an hour after the other kids go home? We could work on your delivery and your grip—you know, just the two of us?”

  Dave’s face lit up with hope. “Really? Sounds perfect!”

  “Will that be okay with Chase, though?”

  Dave’s driver and guardian was always nearby, hanging out by the fancy Mercedes that was almost as big as a limo. He kept a close eye on all of Dave’s social activities.

  “I’ll ask him,” Dave said. “But, hey, he’s our coach too. How can he say no?”

  Sure enough, Chase agreed to an extra half hour of play before driving Dave home to do his homework and have supper.

  Derek asked Vijay to stop at the Jeter house and let his parents know he’d be a little late getting home.

  “If they say no, come back and tell me,” he said.

  “Okay, Chief!”

  “Chief?”

  “Well, I would call you ‘Coach,’ because now you are going to coach Dave, but we already have two coaches, so it would be too confusing.”

  “Whatever,” Derek said, laughing. Vijay never failed to crack him up. Turning to Dave and handing him the ball, he said, “Pitch to me.”

  Dave went out to the tree root that served as the mound. He started throwing to Derek, who was still wearing the catching gear and mitt. Good thing too, because Dave’s fastballs hurt his palm when they hit the pocket of his mitt. “Ouch!” he said. “Man, you’ve got some pop!”

  “I know! But it doesn’t do me any good up there, does it? I can’t get it over half the time, and the other half, they clobber it.”

  “Well, let’s tackle one thing at a time. First of all, let’s get it over the plate. I can see that you’re not finishing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your motion. You’ve got to let go of the ball when your hand is pointed right at the target.” Derek squatted down and made a target with his mitt. “Try it.”

  Dave did—and the ball hit right in the mitt. Derek didn’t even have to move his glove.

  “Wow! That works!” Dave exulted.

  “Now do it ten more times.”

  Dave tried, and had trouble repeating the motion.

  “Don’t get down about it,” Derek advised him. “You’ve got to make it a habit. Now on the follow-through let your arm keep going, and try to end up with your feet square to home plate, so that you can field the ball if it comes to you.”

  They worked on one thing and another, with Dave making adjustments as he went. Then Derek said, “We’ve got only about ten minutes left. So let’s work on giving you a changeup.”

  “A what?”

  Sometimes Derek had to remind himself that a year ago, when they’d first met, Dave had never played a game of baseball, or even watched it much on TV.

  Dave’s sport was golf. In fact, his dream of being a professional golf champion was a lot like Derek’s dream of being starting shortstop for the New York Yankees. Having dreams in common was what had made them best friends.

  “A changeup. A slow pitch, to throw the hitters off. They’re watching your fastball on every pitch, right? Timing it, so that when you finally get it over, they’re ready to roll. But if you throw them a changeup every few pitches, they’ll swing too early and either miss it or make bad contact.”

  “Huh. Sounds interesting. So how do I do it? Just throw more slowly?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  Remembering how his own dad had taught him, Derek showed Dave how to hold the baseball deep in his hand—unlike with the fastball, which is thrown using the fingertips.

  “See? Holding it tighter is what makes the ball slow down. But you throw it with the same motion as your fastball, which means the hitter can’t tell the pitches apart!”

  “Cool!” Dave said. “Let’s try it.”

  They tried a few dozen, with occasional success, before Chase honked the horn.

  “We’ll keep at it,” Derek told him. “Got to form those habits.”

  “Thanks! I feel much better about things. At least about getting better at pitching. Of course, it won’t mean anything if I never get to pitch again. . . .”

  “Don’t get down, Dave. Things will turn around. You never know when you’re going to get your shot. You just have to be ready when it happens.”

  Dave smiled and nodded
. “Thanks again—Chief,” he said, and took off for the car.

  Derek shook his head as he watched his friend go. Man, it was amazing how much his dad had taught him over the last few years. Derek had learned it so well that now he was even able to pass it along to his teammates.

  • • •

  “I can’t believe you beat me by one measly point!”

  Gary held the metal bat like it was dirty toilet paper, and he looked like he was about to vomit. “It must have been a mistake—a clerical error, for sure! There’s no other rational explanation.”

  “Maybe I just studied harder than you,” Derek said, not bothering to suppress his grin. “Or maybe I’m just a little smarter.”

  “Give me a break,” said Gary, rolling his eyes.

  Okay, so maybe Derek wasn’t smarter than Gary. But one thing was sure—he was smarter than Gary thought he was! And he’d outsmarted Gary this time, beating him on the science test by getting a 99 over Gary’s 98, and forcing Gary to make good on his bet.

  Here came Mr. Jeter now, having paid in advance for their batting cage session. “You boys ready?”

  “You bet!” said Derek.

  “Errghh,” said Gary in a tone of sheer dread.

  “First of all,” said Mr. Jeter, opening the cage door to let them in, “that’s not how you hold a bat, Gary. But you know that, right?”

  Gary sighed. “Okay, how’s this?” He adjusted his hands to hold the bat the way he did during a game.

  “Well, that’s closer,” said Mr. Jeter, “but your hands shouldn’t be apart like that. Slide your right hand down a couple of inches.”

  “Like this?”

  “That’s it. Relax your left hand, though. It doesn’t have to be twisted up like that. Now let’s see how you stand in the box.”

  “I don’t like standing in boxes,” Gary quipped. “I’m claustrophobic.”

  “I like a man with a sense of humor,” said Mr. Jeter, clapping Gary on the back.

  Derek noticed that his dad didn’t get mad at Gary for wisecracking, the way he would have if Derek had tried it. Instead he managed to disarm Gary’s resistance with a mix of humor and focus.