Play Ball!

by Matt Christopher

  As he’d hoped, Jerry backed away and right into an—

  “Ambush!”

  Daniel, Oliver, Miguel, and John popped up from behind a snowbank and rifled snowballs at Jerry. Jerry never saw them coming. Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! All four missiles socked him square in the back. He pitched forward, landed on his knees, and died a dramatic mock-death.

  “Yes!” Carter cried, pumping his fist and laughing. He and his friends had been battling for the past half hour on the field behind the middle school. Before the fight, the ground had been pristine, unsullied by a single footprint. Now it was churned up, packed down, and mounded up from the boys’ snow war.

  “Truce! Truce!” Leo called. He’d been hiding behind an equipment shack but now appeared with his cell phone in hand. “My mom says she’ll have cookies and hot chocolate ready in ten minutes if we want to head to my house.”

  Leo lived just past the school. The seven boys agreed they were ready to take a break and so, moving in a pack, they made their way to the road.

  Carter had just snatched Miguel’s hat for a game of keep-away when a car drove past them. Mrs. LaBrie was behind the wheel. Ash was in the passenger seat. He and Carter locked eyes for a long second before Ash looked away, his lips tight. Then the car turned a corner and he was gone.

  Carter felt about one inch tall thanks to the guilt that suddenly pressed down on him. I did try, he reminded himself fiercely. But he knew he was just lying to himself.

  They arrived at Leo’s house a moment later and in the commotion that followed, Carter pushed his guilt aside.

  On Mrs. Frick’s orders, they stripped off their wet snow gear in the garage before trooping into the kitchen. She poured out seven mugs of hot chocolate, tossed a bag of mini-marshmallows to Leo, and set a huge tray of sugar cookies in the center of the table.

  “Have at it!” she said, backing away as if to save herself from a feeding frenzy.

  The boys ate with gusto. Carter was midway through his third cookie when he spotted something interesting tacked to a bulletin board on a far wall.

  “What’s this?” he said, getting up and looking more closely at the colorful flyer. You’re Invited to the Grand Opening of the Diamond Champs! the pamphlet announced.

  Leo’s mother answered. “Oh, that came in the mail today. Remember that old indoor baseball facility? Apparently someone bought it and fixed it all up. The opening is tomorrow. You all probably got an invite, too. I’m sure the new owners sent it to anyone who’s played Little League.”

  “Cool,” Carter said. He read more and added, “Says the batting cages and pitching tunnels will be free to anyone who wants to try them. And no way! There’s an indoor turf field, too, big enough to play real games on. You just have to bring your own glove.” He turned and looked at his friends. “I think we should go check it out, don’t you?”

  His friends agreed enthusiastically. Then they polished off the rest of the cookies and made their way downstairs to play video games.

  “The Diamond Champs,” John said as he settled onto a couch. “I think I once read a book called that.”

  “You can read?” Oliver joked.

  John threw a pillow at him, and with that, the war that had raged outside was renewed in the basement—until Mrs. Frick told them to knock it off.

  Carter and his parents walked into the Diamond Champs the next afternoon. The place was bustling. Inside, shiny silver balloons in the shapes of balls, bats, and gloves danced everywhere. Music blared from loudspeakers. Employees dressed in baseball uniforms handed out paper cones of buttered popcorn, hot dogs, and sodas. The sights, sounds, and smells reminded Carter of a stadium during a game.

  “I think I’m going to spend a lot of time here,” he said with a grin. “A lot of money, too!”

  “In that case,” his mother said, “maybe we’d better say hello to the owner. There she is.”

  Carter looked where she was pointing—and gulped. “Mrs. LaBrie?” he said, staring at their new neighbor. “She bought the place?”

  Mrs. Jones nodded. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to get to know Ash just because of this.” She indicated the facility. “I know I can’t insist you be his friend, Carter. But I think you’d agree that you do have something in common.”

  Carter shrugged noncommittally. Then he followed his parents to the counter. Mrs. LaBrie greeted them warmly. “Cynthia, Carter, nice to see you again. And you must be Peter?”

  While the adults chatted, Carter looked around. Ash must be here somewhere, he thought. He hoped he’d see him before Ash saw him. That way, he could duck away if he wanted.

  Just then, he heard someone call his name. Jerry, Ted, and Remy hurried toward him. All three were sweaty and grinning.

  “Carter, you have got to try out one of the batting cages!” Jerry said. “Brand-new, state-of-the-art pitching machines that actually pitch balls! Not like those old loser ones, where the balls just fell out of the opening onto the floor, remember? Come on!”

  Carter told his parents where he was going and then followed the other boys. He couldn’t see the cage because there were too many people in the way. But he knew they were near when he heard a familiar sound.

  Thock!

  The crowd cheered and applauded.

  “That sounded like a dinger! Who’s batting?” Carter craned his neck to see around the people in front of him. “Anyone we know?”

  Then the crowd parted and he saw who was at bat. It was Ash. As Carter watched, the machine rocketed out another fireball of a pitch. Ash swung and creamed it.

  “Whoa, did you see that?” Jerry cried. He turned to Carter with a look of excitement. “You know who that is?”

  Carter was about to say that the boy’s name was Ash, but that’s not what Jerry meant.

  “That,” Jerry said, “is the guy we’re going to get to replace Liam!”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Liam looked around at the ballplayers sitting with him in the stands. He stifled a yawn, but it wasn’t easy. Baseball tryouts for kids with last names starting with A through M had started twenty minutes ago. But so far, all they’d done was listen to a man named Dr. Driscoll.

  Dr. Driscoll started out by explaining that he had taken over as the director of their district’s Little League Majors division because the previous head had moved up to the Juniors to coach his thirteen-year-old son. He went on to tell them that their league had enough players to field seven teams. He reminded them that at the end of the regular season, the best players from those teams would be selected for their league’s All-Star team.

  Finally, he put his clipboard aside. “Now let’s see what you can do! Everyone has their number pinned to their backs?”

  Liam murmured yes along with the rest of the boys.

  “Good. Numbers one through twenty-five stay here with Mr. Madding”—he indicated a pudgy man with glasses and a goatee—“for batting evaluation. Twenty-six and higher, get your gloves and come with me to the outfield.”

  Liam, number twenty-seven, made his way down the stands. He stood to one side as the batters hurried past. One of them glanced at him—and then did a double take, staring at Liam until the wave of boys pushed him onward.

  Liam blinked. The boy seemed to know who he was, but Liam was sure he’d never seen him before. Maybe he goes to my school, he thought.

  Fielding evaluation was divided into four categories: snaring a ground ball, throwing to first, catching at first, and catching fly balls. Liam was put with a group of six other boys and instructed to find a spot in the outfield. There, a pitching machine was set up, its nose pointed skyward. Liam knew it would soon be shooting balls into the air for them to call and catch. But right now, Dr. Driscoll was having difficulty making the machine work.

  “Hi, you’re Liam, right?”

  Liam turned to see a short boy with red hair and freckles smiling at him. He recognized the boy from his new school. “Yeah. And you’re Sean, aren’t you?”


  “Yep, Sean Driscoll, and before you ask, yes, my dad is the one in charge, and no, I have no idea why he spent so much time boring a bunch of eleven-and twelve-year-old kids.” Sean laughed. “But don’t judge him on that. He knows baseball inside and out. Well, he knows the game inside and out,” he amended. “He’s never actually played before. But he’s a good guy—”

  “—if you do say so yourself!” finished another boy. He stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Rodney Driscoll,” he added. “I see you’ve met my twin brother, Sean.”

  Liam’s jaw dropped. He looked from Sean’s red hair and pale complexion to Rodney’s tight dark curls and chocolate-colored skin. “Twins?”

  Rodney leaned in. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he stage-whispered, “we’re not identical!”

  The Driscolls burst out laughing then.

  “We’re adopted,” Sean explained. “And by some freaky coincidence, we happen to have the same birthday.”

  “We’ve been playing that twin gag for years,” Rodney put in. “I’m still waiting for it to get old. So how do you like living here? What do you think of our school? Got a favorite movie?”

  Liam was kept from answering by Dr. Driscoll’s triumphant cry. The pitching machine was finally working.

  The boys spread out on the field. Liam took a position between the Driscoll “twins” and waited.

  The first ball shot up into the sky.

  “I’ve got it!” a thickset boy to Liam’s far left called. As Liam watched him hurry across the grass, he was reminded of a clip he once saw of Babe Ruth running the bases. Like Ruth, the boy looked awkward but got the job done, making a clean catch. His throw wasn’t that strong, however. Instead of reaching Dr. Driscoll, it hit the ground and dribbled through the turf.

  “Mendoza, you have got to find the power,” Rodney called, shaking his head.

  “That’s why the god of baseball created the cutoff man!” Mendoza shouted back.

  The pitching machine let out a loud beep. This time, the fly came Liam’s way. He called for it, lifted his glove, and watched the ball all the way into the pocket. Unlike Mendoza’s attempt, his throw socked into Dr. Driscoll’s mitt.

  Sean gave a low whistle. “Nice arm, man! You play outfield?”

  “Actually,” Liam said, “I play catcher. That’s what I mostly played back in Pennsylvania, anyway.”

  Rodney gave a short laugh. “Huh, well, don’t get your hopes too high. You’ll be going up against some tough competition,” he said. “Most of these guys have been in the league for years, and these coaches know them already so—”

  “—I have to really show them something good today,” Liam finished.

  “Read my mind,” Rodney said. Then he was off to make a catch.

  Liam wasn’t particularly troubled by what Rodney had said. After all, players were expected to shift around in different positions, and he’d spent a fair amount of time in the outfield. Still, the thought that he might not play catcher at all did make him step up his play during the remainder of the fielding evaluation. He made one or two mistakes, but nothing major.

  Then it was his group’s turn to show what they could do at the plate.

  Follow through, Liam thought as he waited in line. Don’t forget the follow-through!

  Thanks to his father and a few more hours of practice in the backyard, Liam was feeling much more confident as he took some practice cuts. Plus, he thought as he grinned at Sean and Rodney, I’m finally making a few friends in this town!

  “Go get’em, Liam!” Sean cried.

  “Liam? That kid’s name is Liam? Oh, man, I knew he looked familiar!”

  Liam paused in midswing to see who had spoken. It was the boy who had stared at him earlier. He was staring at him again—and beginning to laugh.

  “Don’t you know who that is?” the boy said, his voice full of mirth. “That’s Major Whiff! You know, the guy who struck out at the World Series last year? The guy who swung for the fences, but hit the dirt? That’s him! That’s Major Whiff!”

  And just like that, Liam’s world came crashing down.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  The pitching machine gave a final whir and then shut down.

  “Aww,” the crowd said as one. But Ash made it clear he was done hitting when he took off his batting helmet. That’s when Jerry rushed up to him.

  “Tell me that you’re going to play Little League,” Jerry said, his voice pleading. “And that you’re the right age to play in the Majors!”

  Ash looked startled by Jerry’s aggressive enthusiasm.

  Jerry didn’t seem to notice. “Obviously, you’ve played before,” he said. “What position? And if you say catcher, I may have to kiss you!”

  Now Ash took a step back. “I’ve played catcher before,” he said cautiously. “Um, who are you?”

  “Your future teammate, if I’m lucky,” Jerry said. “Carter, come here!”

  Carter had shrunk back behind a group of people. But now he was forced to join the conversation.

  “Hi, Ash.”

  Ash nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Carter, how perfect is this?” Jerry crowed. “He can hit like Liam and he plays catcher like Liam!”

  “He plays catcher,” Carter corrected. “But we don’t know if he plays like Liam.”

  “We can find out.” Jerry turned to Ash. “This place has pitching tunnels, right?”

  “Yeah, three of them.”

  “Well, Carter is a pitcher, you’re a catcher, there’s a tunnel—so what are we waiting for?” Jerry said. “Let’s get you geared up and test you two out!”

  Ash leveled a look at Carter. “I’m not sure your pitcher is interested. Maybe he’s too tired after throwing snowballs all afternoon yesterday. Or maybe he’s feeling sick again?”

  Carter’s face flamed beet red. “Jerry, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he muttered.

  “Of course it’s a good idea,” Jerry objected. “I thought of it, didn’t I? Now come on, we’re wasting time.”

  Ash shrugged. “I’m in if he is. The tunnels are this way.”

  So five minutes later, Carter stood on the mound waiting for Ash to finish putting on his gear. To his dismay, they had run into more of his teammates. Now practically the whole All-Star team was outside the netting with Jerry. All were watching with great interest.

  “Let’s see it, Carter!” Jerry cried.

  Ash got into his crouch and pounded his mitt. Carter stared down the pitching tunnel, pondering which pitch to throw first. He decided on a straight four-seam fastball, but without full power.

  No need to throw all my good stuff right away, he thought.

  When Ash nodded that he was ready, Carter wound up and threw. The ball socked into Ash’s glove with a satisfying thump.

  “Whoo-hoo!” the boys cried as Ash returned the ball.

  That felt good, Carter thought.

  Ash set himself again. Carter repeated his motion and threw another strike. Again, the boys applauded.

  Carter hurled three more pitches, all strikes. Then Ash got up and removed his mask. Carter figured he was going to say he was through. But he was wrong.

  “That the best you got?” Ash said. “I thought a famous World Series pitcher like you might have a little more heat.”

  Carter blinked in surprise. Famous World Series pitcher? What did Ash know about that?

  He didn’t have time to think about it because his teammates made an “oooing” sound at the challenge.

  “You going to take that, Jones, or are you going to put a little more heat into your fastball?” Ted cried.

  “Heat! Heat! Heat! Heat!” the other boys started chanting.

  Ash dropped his mask in place. Carter pressed his foot to the rubber, leaned in, and rotated the ball until the stitches were beneath his fingers. Ash lifted his glove, showing Carter the target. Carter wound up and hurled the ball.

  Whap! The ball hit Ash’s mitt and stuck ther
e.

  The boys burst out in applause. “Are you kidding me?” Jerry crowed. “That had to have been fifty miles per hour!”

  Carter grinned at them and then glanced at Ash with a triumphant look. But if he expected praise from the catcher, he was sorely mistaken.

  “Not bad,” Ash said dismissively.

  “Not bad?” Carter echoed, his temper rising. “Do you know what the average speed for a twelve-year-old pitcher is?”

  “Fifty to sixty miles per hour,” Ash shot back. “So if Jerry is right about your speed, then I guess that makes you average.”

  If Carter had been angry before, now he was downright furious. “Give me the ball,” he said tightly. “And get ready.”

  Ash shrugged, flipped the ball to him underhand, and settled into his squat as if he didn’t care what Carter did next one way or the other. Carter returned to the rubber and started throwing the ball into his glove.

  Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Remember: channel your anger into the pitch. Liam’s advice suddenly sounded in his mind.

  “Heat. Heat. Heat. Heat.”

  The chants, quieter now, pulsed in time with Carter’s heartbeat. He turned and faced Ash.

  Ash raised his glove. Carter focused on the pocket.

  You want heat? I’ll give you heat.

  He went into his windup. Then, with a tremendous lunge forward, he rocketed the ball toward Ash. The pitch sizzled on a line and smacked into Ash’s glove with a pop.

  Jerry and the other boys jumped in the air, high-fiving and whooping as if they had thrown the heat themselves. Carter looked at Ash. Ash stood up and slowly removed his mask.

  “That’s more like it,” he said. “That’s the kind of heat that’s going to get us on the road to Williamsport. And once we’re on that road, we’re going to put the pedal to the metal until we reach our final destination: the World Series Championship!”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  Major Whiff.

  Liam’s feet felt cemented to the dirt. He wanted to disappear. Instead, with the eyes of twenty-four boys on him, he approached the plate for his first at-bat of the evaluation.