She smiled broadly. “Sounds to me like you have a plan.”
“You bet I do. Major Whiff is going to surprise Phillip DiMaggio and everyone else by turning into Major Hit!”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Ash pulled off his catcher’s mask and gave Carter a long look. “That’s the fifth one outside the strike zone. Are you going to pitch for real or not?”
Carter and Ash had been in the Diamond Champs pitching tunnel for twenty minutes. But Carter couldn’t focus. Part of his brain was worrying about Liam and Phillip. The other part was worrying what Liam would think if he saw him pitching to Ash.
“It was a long day at school, so maybe—”
Ash held up a hand. “I get it. You want to quit, we’ll quit.”
The word quit hit Carter in the gut like a sucker punch. “I’m not a quitter.”
“Good. Then get back to the rubber and throw some heat. I’ll even sweeten the deal—three strikes in a row earns you the candy bar of your choice from the Diamond Champs concession stand.”
“You’re on.”
Ash got into his crouch.
Carter reared back and threw as hard as he could.
Whap!
“Yeowch!” Ash took his hand out of his mitt and shook it, and then tossed the ball back to Carter. Twice more, Carter rifled in pitches that socked squarely into Ash’s waiting glove.
“Yes!” Ash cried. “That last bullet was right on the money!”
“Speaking of money,” Carter said, “you better have enough for that candy bar!”
Ash laughed. “As luck would have it, I’m in good with the owner!”
He threw the ball back to Carter. “Would you like to do it again? Hit six in a row and I’ll throw in a soda with that candy bar. Of course, if you don’t make it…”
“Yeah? What then?” Carter asked.
Ash raised an eyebrow. “You tell me what’s in the woods behind our houses.”
“What?” Carter said, flustered. “I already told you, there’s nothing up there. I was just taking my dog for a walk.”
“Then you don’t have anything to lose, do you?”
Carter bit his lip. He felt trapped—and the only way to get free was to throw six solid strikes. “Get ready, then,” he said finally, “because here comes the first one.”
This time, instead of a straightforward fastball, he switched to a knuckleball. Digging the tips of his pointer, middle, and ring fingers into the ball just below the seam and securing the ball in place with his thumb, he focused on the target, reared back, and threw.
When thrown correctly, the knuckleball’s flight is unpredictable, making it hard to hit. Unfortunately, it can also be hard to catch, especially if the pitcher puts any spin on it—which is just what Carter accidentally did. Ash had to lunge to one side to make the catch. Carter was angry with himself, but Ash just grinned and tossed him the ball.
“So, about the mystery in the forest—?” he asked.
Carter tried to think of something—anything but telling Ash about the hideout! But his mind was a blank.
After a long moment, Ash gave a snort. “Oh, forget about it! Come on, we still have some time before we have to get out of the tunnel. Why don’t you try a two-seamer instead of the knuckleball, see if you can hit the target this time?”
Relieved yet feeling a pang of guilt for backing out, Carter nodded. He’d been throwing fastballs from the four-seam grip. But at Ash’s suggestion, he changed now to a two-seam grip, rotating the ball so his index and middle fingers lined up parallel with the stitches instead of crossing perpendicular. This pitch, sometimes called a sinker, wasn’t quite as fast, but Carter liked it because the ball didn’t follow a straight line on the way to the catcher’s mitt.
After ten sinkers, Carter switched his grip again, placing his middle three fingers on top of the ball and cupping it with his thumb and pinky below for a changeup. From a batter’s point of view, the windup and delivery looked just like a classic fastball. But the grip made the ball come in at a much slower speed. Carter had learned the pitch at baseball camp and fooled many a batter with it since.
Now, however, he would have walked many because his accuracy was fading. After a third straight misfire, he decided it really was time to quit. He was about to say as much to Ash when the catcher stood up and jogged down the tunnel.
“How about making your final pitches all curveballs?” he said, tossing the ball to Carter.
Carter stared. “Curveballs? You’re kidding!”
Ash looked puzzled. “Why would I be kidding? Unless—don’t you know how to throw one?”
Carter did know how to throw a curveball—in theory at least. But he’d never thrown one because Liam had warned him not to.
“There’s something around your elbow that hasn’t finished growing yet,” he had once informed Carter. “Because of the way your forearm twists when you throw a curve, that thing can get all out of whack. Anyway, the article I read said you should wait until you’re older and your body isn’t growing and changing so much before you do the curve.”
Carter answered Ash now, “I know how to throw them. I’m just not supposed to.”
“Really?” Ash said with surprise. “Says who?”
“Says… says…” Carter paused, suddenly at a loss. Liam had said he shouldn’t, but no coach had ever told him he couldn’t.
“The pitch could be your secret weapon,” Ash pressed. “Think about it: a good curve coming from a southpaw like you?” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Batter beware!”
“I don’t know,” Carter said, still hesitating.
“Tell you what,” Ash said. “Try one—just one—and I’ll never ask you to tell me what’s in the woods again.”
That did it. “Give me the ball,” Carter said.
With the ball nestled in his glove, Carter tried to visualize the pitch and the odd twisting motion his arm had to make for the ball to spin forward rather than backward. If thrown correctly, that spinning motion plus the speed of the ball would make the pitch drop before it reached the plate.
If done correctly, Carter thought. That was the key!
He took a deep breath, gripped the ball, wound up, and threw.
Thud!
It wasn’t fast and it wasn’t powerful. But the curveball dipped and hit Ash’s glove as if drawn there by a magnet.
Carter’s jaw dropped. “I—I did it!” he said wonderingly.
Ash leaped up with a huge grin on his face. “I knew you could! And I’ll bet you could do it again, too!”
Carter flexed his fingers. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to try,” he said. But only a few more times, he promised himself silently, thinking again of Liam’s warning. And only to prove that the first one wasn’t just beginner’s luck!
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Your Little League Team Assignment: Pythons.
Liam stared at the subject line of the e-mail. Then he took a deep breath and clicked on the message to open it. He scanned the contents quickly, passing over the information about practices, fundraising, and uniform requirements to get to the team roster.
He smiled broadly when he saw R. Driscoll and S. Driscoll. It made sense they were together, because their father was the Pythons coach. Someone named J. Mendoza was on the roster, too, and Liam wondered if it was the same Mendoza who’d reminded him of Babe Ruth at the tryouts. He didn’t recognize any other name on the list—except for R. Hall.
Oh, great, he groaned inwardly. But his dismay at being on a team with the obnoxious Robert Hall was nothing compared with his relief at not seeing P. DiMaggio on the list.
I’ll still have to face him on the field, he thought, but at least I won’t see him every practice and every game!
The Pythons had their first practice three days later. Liam felt confident when his mother dropped him off at the field. Thanks to her help and extra time in the batting cages, his hitting had started to improve.
/> But his confidence faltered as he crossed the grass.
Several of his new teammates were gathered at the bleachers, laughing uproariously. One of them noticed Liam. He nudged another, who glanced over and then quickly whispered something to the others. Their laughter died as one by one, they turned to look at him. Their silent stares hit Liam like a bucket of cold water.
Then they parted and Liam came face-to-face with Robert.
“Well, if it isn’t Major Whiff!” the burly boy drawled. “Come to show us your famous swing?” He took an exaggerated cut with an imaginary bat and then fell to the ground.
Don’t let him know he’s bugging you! Sean’s advice echoed in Liam’s mind.
Surprise him, he told himself.
“Actually, Robert, it was more like this.” Now Liam pretended to miss a pitch, ending with a comical, slow-motion corkscrewing twist that made the other boys laugh out loud.
Liam smiled and stood up. “Yeah, not my finest moment,” he admitted ruefully as he brushed off his pants. “But see, that’s the thing. It was just one moment. And it was months ago! So how about we leave it in the past where it belongs? Or at least, judge me by how I play now instead. Okay?”
A few of the boys shuffled their feet. One or two shrugged. Others looked at Robert, who just rolled his eyes.
Not exactly the enthusiastic reaction I was looking for, Liam thought, but it’s better than having them laughing about me behind my back!
“Little help here?”
Rodney, Sean, and Dr. Driscoll had arrived and were lugging mesh bags of equipment across the field. Liam and the rest of the Pythons hurried to lend a hand. Once everything was in the dugout, Dr. Driscoll introduced the Pythons assistant coach, Mr. Dumas, a tall balding man with a paunch and a thin mustache. Then he put his clipboard aside.
“We’ll hit the field in a minute,” he said. “But first, I’m going to teach you something very important.” He looked around at them and smiled. “I’m going to teach you how to breathe.”
“Seriously?” Robert exclaimed. “I’ve been doing that my whole life!”
A few of the players snickered.
“This is a different kind of breathing,” Dr. Driscoll said. “Close your eyes. Now breathe in slowly through your nose. Hold it. Now let it out through your mouth.”
He told them to repeat it while he explained the purpose of the exercise. “There will be times during games when the pressure will be tremendous. This breathing technique will help calm you. If you’re calm, you can focus better. If you’re focused, you’re ready for whatever comes your way. Another way to stay focused? Between pitches, look at the webbing of your glove. It will keep your eyes from wandering.”
Although he felt a little foolish, Liam did the breathing exercises because he liked Dr. Driscoll. Still, he was glad when they were over and the real practice began.
First up was a throwing drill. “Rodney, Sean, help me demonstrate the relay,” Coach Driscoll requested.
The three formed a line with twenty-five-foot spaces between them. Rodney placed a ball by his feet. When his father yelled go, Rodney picked up the ball and hurled it to Sean in the middle. Sean spun and sent it to his father—who missed the catch.
“Whoops, my bad!” Dr. Driscoll retrieved the ball and threw it back to Sean. Or he tried to, anyway. Instead of hitting his son’s glove, the ball flew far over his head.
“Been a while since I’ve thrown a ball, I guess,” Coach Driscoll said.
“Yeah, like forever,” Liam heard Robert mutter.
Liam shot him a look. Robert made a face in return and then, still looking at Liam, whispered something to the boy next to him. The boy flicked his eyes at Liam and hid a grin.
“You get the idea,” Dr. Driscoll said. “Groups of three. Hustle, now!”
Sean motioned for Liam to join him and Rodney.
But instead, Liam moved between Robert and his friend. Before they could react, he swung his arms around their shoulders and squeezed.
“Thanks anyway,” he called to the Driscoll boys, “but I’m dying to show these two what I can do.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Coach Harrison clapped his hands for attention. “Grab some turf and listen up!”
At the coach’s command, Carter and his fellow ballplayers found spots to sit on the Diamond Champs indoor field.
“Welcome to the Little League tryouts,” Coach Harrison said. “If you’re here, that means two things. One, you’re ready to play some ball. And two, your last name begins with a letter from A to M. If you’re N through Z, you’re a day early.” He waited while the boys laughed and then continued. “As you know, our All-Star team had a great run last year, and I’m delighted to welcome many of those players back. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: All-Star team selection is months away. First comes the regular season. You want a chance to play on the All-Star team, you earn it by bringing your best to every practice and every game of that regular season!”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the players.
“I’m not just talking about your skills, although obviously how you play is important. The other coaches and I will be watching you all season long. We’re looking for the right attitude, sportsmanship, teamwork, and one hundred ten percent effort. Those are the elements that transform a good team into a great team! And that’s what we want to see from you today!”
“Yeah!” several of the boys called out.
“We’ll be ranking your ability on a scale of one to five in fielding, batting, and base running. Pitchers, you’ll have a chance to show us what you can do, too. Now get out there and amaze us!”
The boys whooped and leaped to their feet. Carter was told to head to the batting cages along with fifteen others. Ash was among that fifteen.
“So, what do you think our chances are of getting on the same team?” Carter asked him while they waited for their turns at the plate.
Ash cocked his head to the side. “Oh, I’d say better than average.” He whirled a finger around at the batting cages and whispered, “Why else do you think I told Mom to let Little League use this place?” He gave a sly wink.
Carter stared at him. “You bribed them so we’d be put together?”
Ash burst out laughing. “Dude, tell me you know I’m joking!”
Before Carter could reply, Ash grabbed a bat and strode to the plate for his turn.
Was he joking? Of course he was joking. Wasn’t he? Carter hoped so. But some little piece of him wondered. Then he thought of something. Even if Ash had tried to use the Diamond Champs as a bribe, there was no way Coach Harrison would have gone along with it.
Reassured, he selected a bat of his own. When it was his turn, he focused on the pitches shooting toward him. Some he missed, but the others he knocked into the nets at the far end of the tunnel.
After batting, Carter and his group moved to the turf for fielding. Carter took a turn at third base, his favorite position when not on the mound. He scooped up grounders, nabbed fly balls, and threw with as much accuracy and power as he could muster to players covering the other bases.
Base running followed fielding. Carter raced from bag to bag as fast as he could, cornering tightly and making sure he stayed within the base paths. After running, many boys were told they could leave. But Carter wasn’t done yet.
“Pitchers, head to the tunnels and warm up!” Coach Harrison called. “We’ll come check you out in a few minutes.”
Carter felt a buzz of excitement in his gut. He started toward the tunnels. But then he stopped and knelt down as if to tie a loose shoelace.
I’ll let the other pitchers go first so I can see how good they are, he thought. Then I can decide if I need to impress Mr. Harrison with the curveball or not!
Twenty minutes later, Carter had watched several young pitchers hurl fastballs and changeups. Most of them looked good. A few looked better than good. It was those few who decided it for Carter.
Prepa
re to be amazed, Coach! he thought as he strode into the tunnel. Ash partnered with him as catcher.
Carter didn’t start with the curveball. Instead, like the other pitchers, he rifled in some fastballs, some changeups, and even a few knuckleballs. All found their mark, and Carter was pleased to see Coach Harrison nodding.
“Just as strong as last season, Carter,” the coach said with satisfaction. “Maybe even stronger. One more, now, and we’ll let the next boy have a go.”
Carter nodded. Turning back, he caught Ash’s eye.
Ash settled into his crouch and with a quick movement, flashed a sign.
Carter hid a grin. Carter wound up and delivered, twisting his forearm to give the ball the right spin. The ball hit Ash’s glove cleanly.
I did it! Carter thought. I—
“Jones!” Coach Harrison’s sudden bark interrupted Carter’s thoughts. His tone was so different from just a moment ago that Carter’s blood froze. “I’d like a word with you!”
Carter hurried out of the tunnel to follow the coach. The remaining boys whispered as he passed. “That doesn’t sound good,” he heard one of them say.
It wasn’t good.
“Who taught you to throw a curveball?” Mr. Harrison demanded.
“I—nobody,” Carter stammered. “I mean, I sort of taught myself.” Up until that moment, he’d been proud of his accomplishment. Coach Harrison’s disapproval sapped him of that pride.
The coach took his cap off and ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, Carter, listen to me. First of all, learning and practicing a new pitch—any new pitch—without guidance from a coach is not a good idea. More importantly, throwing curveballs can be downright dangerous to your arm.”
Liam’s long-ago warning about the curveball suddenly flashed through Carter’s head. “Because I’m not old enough?”
Coach Harrison gave a rueful laugh. “If I had my way, I wouldn’t allow anyone of any age to throw it. I don’t care how effective a pitch it is. And don’t get me wrong, it is effective or else no one would throw it. But it can also contribute to serious arm injury. At this stage of the game, you should be working on getting the ball over the plate consistently and changing speeds, hitting different points in the strike zone, and understanding what kind of pitches to use in different game situations. Leave the curveball for later in your career. Much, much later.”
Play Ball! Page 9
